EN ROUTE

by

J. K. HUYSMANS

Translated by W. Fleming

EN ROUTE. 

CHAPTER I. 

During the first week in November, the week within the Octave of AllSouls, Durtal entered St. Sulpice, at eight o'clock in the evening. Heoften chose to turn into that church, because there was a trained choir, and because he could there examine himself at peace, apart from thecrowd. The ugliness of the nave, with its heavy vaulting, vanished atnight, the aisles were often empty, it was ill-lighted by a fewlamps--it was possible for a man to chide his soul in secret, as if athome. 

Durtal sat down behind the high altar, on the left, in the aisle alongthe Rue de St. Sulpice; the lamps of the choir organ were lighted. Faroff, in the almost empty nave, an ecclesiastic was preaching. Herecognized, by the unctuousness of his delivery, and his oily accent, awell-fed priest who poured on his audience, according to his wont, hisbest known commonplaces. 

"Why are they so devoid of eloquence?" thought Durtal. "I have had thecuriosity to listen to many of them, and they are much the same. Theyonly vary in the tones of their voice. According to their temperament, some are bruised down in vinegar, others steeped in oil. There is nosuch thing as a clever combination. " And he called to mind oratorspetted like tenors, Monsabré, Didon, those Coquelins of the Church, andlower yet than those products of the Catholic training school, thatbellicose booby the Abbé d'Hulst. 

"Afterwards, " he continued, "come the mediocrities, each puffed by thehandful of devotees who listen to them. If those cooks of the soul hadany skill, if they served their clients with delicate meats, theologicalessences, gravies of prayer, concentrated sauces of ideas, they wouldvegetate misunderstood by their flocks. So, on the whole, it is all forthe best. The low-water mark of the clergy must conform to the level ofthe faithful, and indeed Providence has provided carefully for this. "

A stamping of shoes, then the movement of chairs grinding on the flagsinterrupted him. The sermon was over. 

Then a great stillness was broken by a prelude from the organ, whichdropped to a low tone, a mere accompaniment to the voices. 

A slow and mournful chant arose, the "De Profundis. " The blended voicessounded under the arches, intermingling with the somewhat raw sounds ofthe harmonicas, like the sharp tones of breaking glass. 

Resting on the low accompaniment of the organ, aided by basses so hollowthat they seemed to have descended into themselves, as it wereunderground, they sprang out, chanting the verse "De profundis ad teclamavi, Do--" and then stopped in fatigue, letting the last syllables"mine" fall like a heavy tear; then these voices of children, nearbreaking, took up the second verse of the psalm, "Domine exaudi vocemmeam, " and the second half of the last word again remained in suspense, but instead of separating, and falling to the ground, there to becrushed out like a drop, it seemed to gather itself together with asupreme effort, and fling to heaven the anguished cry of thedisincarnate soul, cast naked, and in tears before God. 

And after a pause, the organ, aided by two double-basses, bellowed out, carrying all the voices in its torrent--baritones, tenors, basses, notnow serving only as sheaths to the sharp blades of the urchin voices, but openly with full throated sound--yet the dash of the little sopranipierced them through all at once like a crystal arrow. 

Then a fresh pause, and in the silence of the church, the verses mournedout anew, thrown up by the organ, as by a spring board. As he listenedwith attention endeavouring to resolve the sounds, closing his eyes, Durtal saw them at first almost horizontal, then rising little bylittle, then raising themselves upright, then quivering in tears, beforetheir final breaking. 

Suddenly at the end of the psalm, when the response of the antiphoncame--"Et lux perpetua luceat eis"--the children's voices broke into asad, silken cry, a sharp sob, trembling on the word "eis, " whichremained suspended in the void. 

These children's voices stretched to breaking, these clear sharp voicesthrew into the darkness of the chant some whiteness of the dawn, joiningtheir pure, soft sounds to the resonant tones of the basses, piercing aswith a jet of living silver the sombre cataract of the deeper singers;they sharpened the wailing, strengthened and embittered the burning saltof tears, but they insinuated also a sort of protecting caress, balsamicfreshness, lustral help; they lighted in the darkness those brief gleamswhich tinkle in the Angelus at dawn of day; they called up, anticipatingthe prophecies of the text, the compassionate image of the Virgin, passing, in the pale light of their tones, into the darkness of thatsequence. 

The "De Profundis" so chanted was incomparably beautiful. That sublimeprayer ending in sobs, at the moment when the soul of the voices wasabout to overpass human limits, gave a wrench to Durtal's nerves, andmade his heart beat. Then he wished to abstract himself, and clingespecially to the meaning of that sorrowful plaint, in which the fallenbeing calls upon its God with groans and lamentations. Those cries ofthe third verse came back to him, wherein calling on his Saviour indespair from the bottom of the abyss, man, now that he knows he isheard, hesitates ashamed, knowing not what to say. The excuses he hasprepared appear to him vain, the arguments he has arranged seem to himof no effect, and he stammers forth; "If Thou, O Lord, shalt observeiniquities, Lord, who shall endure it?"

"It is a pity, " said Durtal to himself, "that this psalm, which in itsfirst verses chants so magnificently the despair of humanity, becomes inthose which follow more personal to King David. I know well, " he wenton, "that we must accept the symbolic sense of this pleading, admit thatthe despot confounds his own cause with that of God, that hisadversaries are the unbelievers and the wicked, that he himself, according to the doctors of the Church, prefigures the person of Christ;but yet the memory of his fleshly desires, and the presumptuous praisehe gives to his incorrigible people, contracts the scope of the poem. Happily the melody has a life apart from the text, a life of its own, not arising out of mere tribal dissensions, but extending to all theearth, chanting the anguish of the time to be born, as well as of thepresent day, and of the ages which are no more. "

The "De Profundis" had ceased; after a silence, the choir intoned amotet of the eighteenth century, but Durtal was only moderatelyinterested in human music in churches. What seemed to him superior tothe most vaunted works of theatrical or worldly music, was the old plainchant, that even and naked melody, at once ethereal and of the tomb, thesolemn cry of sadness and lofty shout of joy, those grandiose hymns ofhuman faith, which seem to well up in the cathedrals, like irresistiblegeysers, at the very foot of the Romanesque columns. What music, howeverample, sorrowful or tender, is worth the "De Profundis" chanted inunison, the solemnity of the "Magnificat, " the splendid warmth of the"Lauda Sion, " the enthusiasm of the "Salve Regina, " the sorrow of the"Miserere, " and the "Stabat Mater, " the majestic omnipotence of the "TeDeum"? Artists of genius have set themselves to translate the sacredtexts: Vittoria, Josquin de Près, Palestrina, Orlando Lasso, Handel, Bach, Haydn, have written wonderful pages; often indeed they have beenuplifted by the mystic effluence, the very emanation of the Middle Ages, for ever lost; and yet their works have retained a certain pomp, and inspite of all are pretentious, as opposed to the humble magnificence, thesober splendour of the Gregorian chant--with them the whole thing cameto an end, for composers no longer believed. 

Yet in modern times some religious pieces may be cited of Lesueur, Wagner, Berlioz, and Cĉsar Franck, and in these again we are consciousof the artist underlying his work, the artist determined to show hisskill, thinking to exalt his own glory, and therefore leaving God out. We feel ourselves in the presence of superior men, but men with theirweaknesses, their inseparable vanity, and even the vice of their senses. In the liturgical chant, created almost always anonymously in the depthof the cloisters, was an extraterrestrial well, without taint of sin ortrace of art. It was an uprising of souls already freed from the slaveryof the flesh, an explosion of elevated tenderness and pure joy, it wasalso the idiom of the Church, a musical gospel appealing like the Gospelitself at once to the most refined and the most humble. 

Ah! the true proof of Catholicism was that art which it had founded, anart which has never been surpassed; in painting and sculpture the EarlyMasters, mystics in poetry and in prose, in music plain chant, inarchitecture the Romanesque and Gothic styles. And all this heldtogether and blazed in one sheaf, on one and the same altar; all wasreconciled in one unique cluster of thoughts: to revere, adore and servethe Dispenser, showing to Him reflected in the soul of His creature, asin a faithful mirror, the still immaculate treasure of His gifts. 

Then in those marvellous Middle Ages, wherein Art, foster-child of theChurch, encroached on death and advanced to the threshold of Eternity, and to God, the divine concept and the heavenly form were guessed andhalf-perceived, for the first and perhaps for the last time by man. Theyanswered and echoed each other--art calling to art. 

The Virgins had faces almond-shaped, elongated like those ogives whichthe Gothic style contrived in order to distribute an ascetic light, avirginal dawn in the mysterious shrine of its naves. In the pictures ofthe Early Masters the complexion of holy women becomes transparent asPaschal wax, and their hair is pale as golden grains of frankincense, their childlike bosoms scarcely swell, their brows are rounded like theglass of the pyx, their fingers taper, their bodies shoot upwards likedelicate columns. Their beauty becomes, as it were, liturgical. Theyseem to live in the fire of stained glass, borrowing from the flamingwhirlwind of the rose-windows the circles of their aureoles. The ardentblue of their eyes, the dying embers of their lips, keeping for theirgarments the colours they disdain for their flesh, stripping them oftheir light, changing them, when they transfer them to stuffs, intoopaque tones which aid still more by their contrast to declare theseraphic clearness of their look, the grievous paleness of the mouth, towhich, according to the Proper of the season, the scent of the lily ofthe Canticles or the penitential fragrance of myrrh in the Psalms lendtheir perfume. 

Then among artists was a coalition of brains, a welding together ofsouls. Painters associated themselves in the same ideal of beauty witharchitects, they united in an indestructible relation cathedrals andsaints, only reversing the usual process--they framed the jewelaccording to the shrine, and modelled the relics for the reliquary. 

On their side the sequences chanted by the Church had subtle affinitieswith the canvases of the Early Painters. 

Vittoria's responses for Tenebrĉ are of a like inspiration and an equalloftiness with those of Quentin Matsys' great work, the Entombment ofChrist. The "Regina Coeli" of the Flemish musician Lasso has the samegood faith, the same simple and strange attraction, as certain statuesof a reredos, or religious pictures of the elder Breughel. Lastly, theMiserere of Josquin de Près, choirmaster of Louis XII. , has, like thepanels of the Early Masters of Burgundy and Flanders, a patientintention, a stiff, threadlike simplicity, but also it exhales like thema truly mystical savour, and its awkwardness of outline is verytouching. 

The ideal of all these works is the same and attained by differentmeans. 

As for plain chant, the agreement of its melody with architecture isalso certain; it also bends from time to time like the sombre Romanesquearcades, and rises, shadowy and pensive, like complete vaulting. The "DeProfundis, " for instance, curves in on itself like those great groinswhich form the smoky skeleton of the bays; it is like them slow anddark, extends itself only in obscurity and moves only in the shadow ofthe crypts. 

Sometimes, on the other hand, the Gregorian chant seems to borrow fromGothic its flowery tendrils, its scattered pinnacles, its gauzy rolls, its tremulous lace, its trimmings light and thin as the voices ofchildren. Then it passes from one extreme to another, from the amplitudeof sorrow to an infinite joy; at other times again, the plain music, andthe Christian music to which it gave birth, lend themselves, likesculpture, to the gaiety of the people, associate themselves with simplegladness, and the sculptured merriment of the ancient porches; they takethe popular rhythm of the crowd, as in the Christmas carol "AdesteFideles" and in the Paschal hymn "O Filii et Filiĉ;" they become trivialand familiar like the Gospels, submitting themselves to the humblewishes of the poor, lending them a holiday tune easy to catch, arunning melody which carries them into pure regions where these simplesouls can cast themselves at the indulgent feet of Christ. 

Born of the Church, and bred up by her in the choir-schools of theMiddle Ages, plain chant is the aerial and mobile paraphrase of theimmovable structure of the cathedrals; it is the immaterial and fluidinterpretation of the canvases of the Early Painters; it is a wingedtranslation, but also the strict and unbending stole of those Latinsequences, which the monks built up or hewed out in the cloisters in thefar-off olden time. 

Now it is changed and disconnected, foolishly overwhelmed by the crashof organs, and is chanted, God knows how!

Most choirs when they intone it, like to imitate the rumbling andgurgling of water-pipes, others the grating of rattles, the creaking ofpullies, the grinding of a crane, but, in spite of all, its beautyremains, unextinguished, dulled though it be, by the wild bellowing ofthe singers. 

The sudden silence in the church roused Durtal. He rose and looked abouthim; in his corner was no one save two poor women, asleep, their feet onthe bars of chairs, their heads on their knees. Leaning forward alittle, he saw, hanging above him in a dark chapel, the light of a lamp, like a ruby in its red glass; no sound save the military tread of theSuisse, making his round in the distance. 

Durtal sat down again; the sweetness of his solitude was enhanced by thearomatic perfume of wax, and the memories, now faint, of incense, but itwas suddenly broken. As the first chords crashed on the organ Durtalrecognized the "Dies irĉ, " that despairing hymn of the Middle Ages;instinctively he bowed his head and listened. 

This was no more as in the "De Profundis" an humble supplication, asuffering which believes it has been heard, and discerns a path of lightto guide it in the darkness, no longer the prayer which has hope enoughnot to tremble; it was the cry of absolute desolation and of terror. 

And, indeed, the wrath divine breathed tempestuously through thesestanzas. They seemed addressed less to the God of mercy, to the Son wholistens to prayer, than to the inflexible Father, to Him whom the OldTestament shows us, overcome with anger, scarcely appeased by the smokeof the pyres, the inconceivable attractions of burnt-offerings. In thischant it asserted itself still more savagely, for it threatened tostrike the waters, and break in pieces the mountains, and to rendasunder the depths of heaven by thunder-bolts. And the earth, alarmed, cried out in fear. 

A crystalline voice, a clear child's voice, proclaimed in the nave thetidings of these cataclysms, and after this the choir chanted newstrophes wherein the implacable judge came with shattering blare oftrumpet, to purify by fire the rottenness of the world. 

Then, in its turn, a bass, deep as a vault, as though issuing from thecrypt, accentuated the horror of these prophecies, made these threatsmore overwhelming, and after a short strain by the choir, an altorepeated them in yet more detail. Then, so soon as the awful poem hadexhausted the enumeration of chastisement and suffering, in shrilltones--the falsetto of a little boy--the name of Jesus went by, and alight broke in on the thunder-cloud, the panting universe cried forpardon, recalling, by all the voices of the choir, the infinite merciesof the Saviour, and His pardon, pleading with Him for absolution, asformerly He had spared the penitent thief and the Magdalen. 

But in the same despairing and headstrong melody the tempest ragedagain, drowned with its waves the half-seen shores of heaven, and thesolos continued, discouraged, interrupted by the recurrent weeping ofthe choir, giving, with the diversity of voices, a body to the specialconditions of shame, the particular states of fear, the different agesof tears. 

At last, when still mixed and blended, these voices had borne away onthe great waters of the organ all the wreckage of human sorrows, all thebuoys of prayers and tears, they fell exhausted, paralyzed by terror, wailing and sighing like a child who hides its face, stammering "Donaeis requiem, " they ended, worn out, in an Amen so plaintive, that itdied away in a breath above the sobbing of the organ. 

What man could have imagined such despair, dreamed of such disasters?And Durtal made answer to himself: "No man. "

In fact the attempt has been vain to discover the author both of themusic and of the sequence. They have been attributed to Frangipani, Thomas of Celano, St. Bernard and a crowd of others, and they haveremained anonymous, simply formed by the sad alluvial deposits of theage. The "Dies irĉ" seemed to have, at first, fallen, like a seed ofdesolation, among the distracted souls of the eleventh century; itgerminated there and grew slowly, nurtured by the sap of anguish, watered by the rain of tears. It was at last pruned when it seemed ripe, and had, perhaps, thrown out too many branches, for in one of theearliest known texts, a stanza, which has since disappeared, called upthe magnificent and barbarous image of an earth revolving as it belchedforth flames, while the constellations burst into shards, and heavenshrivelled like a parched scroll. 

"All this, " concluded Durtal, "does not prevent these triple stanzaswoven of shadow and cold, full of reverberating rhymes, and hard echoes, this music of rude stuff which wraps the phrases like a shroud, andmasks the rigid outlines of the work, from being admirable! Yet thatchant which constrains, and renders with such energy the breadth of thesequence, that melodic period, which without variation, remaining alwaysthe same, succeeds in expressing by turns prayer and terror, moves meless than the 'De Profundis, ' which yet has not its grandiosespaciousness nor that artistic cry of despair. 

"But chanted to the organ the psalm is earthy and suffocating. It comesfrom out the very depths of the sepulchre, while the 'Dies irĉ' has itssource only on the sill of the tomb. The first is the very voice of thedead, the second that of the living who inter him, and the dead manweeps, but takes courage a little, when those that bury him despair. 

"To sum up, " Durtal concluded, "I prefer the text of the 'Dies irĉ' tothat of the 'De Profundis, ' and the melody of the 'De Profundis' to thatof the 'Dies irĉ. ' It is true also that this last sequence ismodernized, and chanted theatrically here, without the imposing andneedful march of unison. 

"This time, for instance, it is devoid of interest, " he continued, ceasing his thoughts for a moment, to listen to the piece of modernmusic which the choir was just then rendering. "Ah, who will take onhimself to proscribe that pert mysticism, those fonts of toilet-waterwhich Gounod invented!... There ought indeed to be astonishingpenalties for choir masters who allow such musical effeminacy in church. This is, as it was this morning at the Madeleine, when I happened to bepresent at the interminable funeral of an old banker; they played amilitary march with violin and violoncello accompaniments, with trumpetsand timbrels, a heroic and worldly march to celebrate the departure andthe decomposition of a financier!... It is too absurd. " And listening nomore to the music in St. Sulpice, Durtal transferred himself in thoughtto the Madeleine, and went off at full speed in his dreams. 

"Indeed, " he said to himself, "the clergy make Jesus like a tourist, when they invite Him daily to come down into that church whose exterioris surmounted by no cross, and whose interior is like the grandreception-room at an hotel. But how can you make those priestsunderstand that ugliness is sacrilege, and that nothing is equal to thefrightful sin of this confusion of Romanesque and Greek, these picturesof aged men, that flat ceiling studded with skylights, from which filterin all weathers the spoiled gleams of a rainy day, to that futile altarsurmounted by a circle of angels who, in discreet abandonment, dance inhonour of our Lady, a motionless marble rigadoon?"

Yet in the Madeleine, at a funeral, when the door opens, and the corpseadvances in a gap of daylight, all is changed. Like a superterrestrialantiseptic, an extrahuman disinfectant, the liturgy purifies andcleanses the impious ugliness of the place. 

And thinking over his memories of the morning, Durtal saw again, as heclosed his eyes, at the end of the semicircular apse, the procession ofred and black robes, white surplices, joining in front of the altar, descending the steps together, making their way together to thecatafalque, dividing again on each aide, joining to mix afresh in thegreat gangway between the chairs. 

This slow and silent procession, led by incomparable Suisses, inmourning, their swords horizontal, and a general's epaulets in jet, advanced, preceded by a cross, in front of the corpse laid on tressels, and far-off in all that confusion of lights falling from the roof, andlighted flambeaux round the catafalque and on the altar, the white ofthe tapers disappeared, and the priests who bore them seemed to marchwith empty hands uplifted as though to point out the stars whichaccompanied them, twinkling above their heads. 

Then when the bier was surrounded by the clergy, the "De Profundis"burst forth from the depths of the sanctuary, intoned by invisiblesingers. 

"That was good, " said Durtal to himself. At the Madeleine the voices ofthe children are sharp and feeble, and the basses are badly trained andfailing; we are evidently far from the choir of St. Sulpice, but all thesame it was superb; then what a moment was that of the priests'communion, when suddenly arising from the murmuring of the choir, thevoice of the tenor threw above the corpse the magnificent plain chantantiphon--

 "Requiem ĉternam dona eis Domine Et lux perpetua luceat eis. "

It seems that after all the lamentations of the "De Profundis" and the"Dies irĉ, " the presence of God, who comes then upon the altar, bringsconsolation, and sanctions the confident and solemn pride of thatmelodious phrase, which then invokes Christ, without dread and withouttears. 

The mass ended, the celebrant disappeared, and, as at the moment whenthe corpse entered, the clergy, preceded by the Suisses, advancedtowards the body, and in the blazing circle of the tapers, a priest, inhis cope, said the mighty prayers of the general absolution. 

Then the liturgy took a higher tone, and became still more admirable. Mediative between the sinner and the judge, the Church, by the mouth ofher priest, implores the Lord to pardon the poor soul: "Non intres injudicium cum servo tuo Domine"--then after the amen given by the organand all the choir, a voice arose in the silence, and spoke in the nameof the dead:--

"Libera me!"

and the choir continued the old chant of the tenth century. Just as inthe "Dies irĉ, " which appropriates to itself fragments of these plaints, the Last Judgment flamed out, and pitiless responses declare to the deadthe reality of his alarms, declare to him that at the end of Time theJudge will come with the crash of thunder to chastise the world. 

The priest marched round the catafalque, sprinkling it with beads ofholy water, incensed it, gave shelter to the poor weeping soul, consoledit, took it to himself, covered it, as it were, with his cope, andagain, intervened to pray that, after so much weariness and sorrow, theLord will permit the unhappy one to sleep the sleep that knows nowaking, far from earth's noises. 

Never, in any religion, has a more charitable part, a more augustmission been assigned to man. Lifted, by his consecration, wholly abovehumanity, almost deified by the sacerdotal office, the priest, whileearth laments or is silent, can advance to the brink of the abyss, andintercede for the being whom the Church has baptized as an infant, whohas no doubt forgotten her since that day, and may even have persecutedher up to the hour of his death. 

Nor does the Church shrink from the task. Before that fleshly dustheaped in a chest, she thinks of that sewage of the soul, and cries:"From the gates of hell deliver him, O Lord!" but at the end of thegeneral absolution, at the moment when the procession, turning its back, is on the way to the sacristy, she too seems disquieted. Perhapsrecalling in an instant, the ill deeds done by that body while it wasalive, she seemed to doubt if her supplications were heard, and thedoubt her words would not frame, passed into the intonation of the lastamen, murmured at the Madeleine, by children's voices. 

Timid and distant, plaintive and sweet, this amen said: "We have donewhat we could, but ... But ... " And in the funereal silence whichfollowed the clergy leaving the nave, there remained only the ignoblereality of the empty husk, lifted in the arms of men, thrust into acarriage, like the refuse of the shambles carted off each morning to bemade into soap at the factories. 

"If, " continued Durtal, "in opposition to these sad prayers, theseeloquent absolutions, we call up before us a marriage mass, all ischanged. There the Church is disarmed and her musical liturgy is asnought. Then she may well play Mendelssohn's Wedding March, and borrowfrom profane authors the gaiety of their songs to celebrate the briefand empty joy of the body. Imagine, and indeed it happens, the canticleof the Virgin used to magnify the glad impatience of a bride. Fancy theTe Deum, to hymn the blessedness of a bridegroom!"

Far away from this infamous barter of the flesh, plain chant remainsshut up in the antiphonaries, like a monk in the cloister, and when itgoes forth, it is to cast up before Christ his garnered pains andsorrows. It gathers and sums them up in admirable supplications, and if, fatigued with pleading it adores, its impulse is to glorify eternalevents, Palm Sunday and Easter, Pentecost and the Ascension, Epiphanyand Christmas, then its joy bursts forth so magnificently, that itsprings beyond the world to show its ecstatic joy at the feet of God. 

As to the very ceremonies of the funeral, they are now only the regularway of getting money, an official routine, a prayer-wheel which isturned mechanically without thought of it. 

The organist while he plays thinks of his family, and considers howwearied he is; the bellows-blower thinks, as he fills the pipes, of thehalf-pint which will dry his sweat; the tenors and basses are careful oftheir effects, and admire themselves in the more or less rippled waterof their voices; the choir boys dream of their scampers after mass; and, moreover, not one of them at all understands a word of the Latin theysing and abridge, as for instance the "Dies irĉ, " of which they suppressa part of the stanzas. 

In its turn beadledom calculates the sum the dead man brings in, andeven the priest, wearied with the prayers of which he has read so many, and needing his breakfast, prays mechanically from the lips outward, while the assistants are in a hurry that the mass to which they have notlistened should come to an end, that they may shake hands with therelations, and leave the dead. 

There is absolute inattention, profound weariness. Yet how terrible isthat thing on the tressels that is waiting there in the church, thatempty dwelling-place, that body which is already breaking up. Liquidmanure that stinks, gases which evaporate, flesh that rots is all thatremains!

And the soul, now that life is over, and all begins? No one thinks ofit, not even the family worn out by the length of the service, absorbedin their own sorrow; who in fact regret only the visible presence of thebeing they have lost; no one except myself, thought Durtal, and a fewcurious people, who associate themselves in their alarm with the "Diesirĉ" and the "Libera, " of which they understand both the language andthe meaning. 

Then by the external sound of the words, without the aid ofcontemplation, without even the help of thought, the Church acts. 

There it is, the miracle of her liturgy, the power of her word, theconstantly renewed prodigy of phrases created by revolving time, ofprayers arranged by ages which are dead. All has passed, nothing existsthat was raised up in those bygone times. Yet those sequences remainintact, cried aloud by indifferent voices and cast out from emptyhearts, plead, groan, and implore even with efficacy, by their virtualpower, their talismanic might, their inalienable beauty by the almightyconfidence of their faith. The Middle Ages have left us these to help usto save, if it may be, the soul of the modern and dead fine gentleman. 

At the present time, concluded Durtal, there is nothing left peculiar toParis, but the ceremonies, very like each other, of taking the veil andof funerals. It is unfortunate that when we have to do with a sumptuouscorpse, undertakers have their way. 

They then bring out their terrible upholstery, plated statues of ourLady in atrocious taste, zinc basins in which blaze bowls of greenpunch, tin candelabra at the end of a branch, like a cannon on end withits mouth upwards, supporting spiders on their backs, with burningcandles set about their legs, all the funeral ironmongery of the FirstEmpire, with curtain rods in relief, acanthus leaves, wingedhour-glasses, lozenges and Greek frets. It is unfortunate, too, that totouch up the miserable furniture of these ceremonies they play Massenetand Dubois, Benjamin Godard and Widor, or, worse still, the sacristyorchestra, mystical bellowing, such as the women sing, who areaffiliated to the confraternities of the month of May. 

And alas, we hear no longer the tempests of the great organs and themajestic dolours of plain chant, save at the funerals of the moniedclasses; for the poor, nothing--no choir, no organ, just a handful ofprayers, then a few dips of the brush in the holy water stoup, and thereis a dead man the more on whom the rain falls, who is carried away. Butthe Church knows that the carrion of the rich rots as much as that ofthe poor, while his soul stinks more, but she jobs indulgences andhaggles about masses; she, even she, is consumed by the lust of gold. 

"Yet I must not think too ill of these wealthy fools, " said Durtal, after silent thought, "for after all it is thanks to them that I canhear the admirable liturgy of the burial service, these people whoperhaps have done no good action in their life, do at least thiskindness to a few, without knowing it, after their death. "

A noise recalled him to St. Sulpice; the choir was going, the church wasabout to close. "I might as well have tried to pray, " he said tohimself, "it would have been better than to dream in the empty church ona chair. Pray indeed? I have no desire for it. I am haunted byCatholicism, intoxicated by its atmosphere of incense and wax, I prowlabout it, moved even to tears by its prayers, touched even to the marrowby its psalms and chants. I am thoroughly disgusted with my life, verytired of myself, but it is a far cry from that to leading a differentexistence! And yet--and yet ... If I am perturbed in these chapels, Ibecome unmoved and dry again, as soon as I leave them. After all, " hesaid to himself, getting up, and following the few persons who weremoving towards a door, driven out by the Suisse, "after all, my heart ishardened and smoke-dried by dissipation, I am good for nothing. "

CHAPTER II. 

How had he again become a Catholic, and got to this point?

Durtal answered himself: "I cannot tell, all that I know is that, havingbeen for years an unbeliever, I suddenly believe. 

"Let us see, " he said to himself, "let us try at least to consider if, however great the obscurity of such a subject, there be not common sensein it. 

"After all, my surprise depends on preconceived ideas of conversions. Ihave heard of sudden and violent crises of the soul, of a thunderbolt, or even of faith exploding at last in ground slowly and cleverly mined. It is quite evident that conversions may happen in one or other of thesetwo ways, for God acts as may seem good to Him, but there must be also athird means, and this no doubt the most usual, which the Saviour hasused in my case. And I know not in what this consists; it is somethinganalogous to digestion in a stomach, which works though we do not feelit. There has been no road to Damascus, no events to bring about acrisis; nothing has happened, we awake some fine morning, and, withoutknowing how or why, the thing is done. 

"Yes, but in fact this manoeuvre is very like that of the mine whichonly explodes after it has been deeply dug. Yet not so, for in that casethe operations are material, the objections in the way are resolved; Imight have reasoned, followed the course of the spark along the thread, but in this case, no! I sprang unexpectedly, without warning, withouteven having suspected that I was so carefully sapped. Nor was it a clapof thunder, unless I admit that a clap of thunder can, be occult andsilent, strange and gentle. And this again would be untrue, for suddendisorder of the soul almost always follows a misfortune or a crime, anact of which we are aware. 

"No, the one thing which seems certain, in my case, is that there hasbeen divine impulse, grace. 

"But, " said he, "in that case the psychology of conversion isworthless, " and he made answer to himself, --

"That seems to be so, for I seek in vain to retrace the stages throughwhich I have passed; no doubt I can distinguish here and there somelandmarks on the road I have travelled: love of art, heredity, wearinessof life; I can even recall some of the forgotten sensations ofchildhood, the subterranean workings of ideas excited by my visits tothe churches; but I am unable to gather these threads together, andgroup them in a skein, I cannot understand the sudden and silentexplosion of light which took place in me. When I seek to explain tomyself how one evening an unbeliever, I became without knowing it, onone night a believer, I can discover nothing, for the divine action hasvanished, and left no trace. 

"It is certain, " he continued, after silent thought, "that in thesecases the Virgin acts upon us, it is she who moulds and places us in thehands of her Son, but her fingers are so light, so supple, so caressing, that the soul they have handled has felt nothing. 

"On the other hand, if I ignore the course and stages of my conversion, I can at least guess the motives which, after a life of indifference, have brought me into the harbours of the Church, made me wander roundabout her borders, and finally gave me a shove from behind to bring mein. "

And he said to himself, without more ado, there are three causes:--

"First, the atavism of an old and pious family, scattered among themonasteries;" and the memories of childhood returned to him, of cousins, of aunts, seen in convent parlours; gentle women and grave, white aswafers, who alarmed him by their low voices, who troubled him by theirlooks, and asked if he were a good boy. 

He felt a sort of terror, and hid himself in his mother's skirts, trembling when he went away, and was obliged to bend his brow to thosecolourless lips, and undergo the touch of a chilly kiss. 

Now that he thought of them at a distance, the interviews which hadwearied him so much in his childhood, seemed to him charming. He putinto them all the poetry of the cloister, clothed those bare parlourswith a faded scent of wainscotting and of wax, and he saw again theconvent gardens through which he had passed, impregnated with the bittersalt scent of box, planted with clipped hedges, intermingled withtrellises, whose green grapes never ripened, divided by benches whosemouldering stone kept the traces worn by water; and a thousand detailscame back to him of those silent lime alleys, of the paths where he ranin the interlaced shade which branches threw upon the ground. Thesegardens had seemed to him to become larger as he grew older, and heretained a somewhat confused memory of them, amid which was the vaguerecollection of an old stately park, and of a presbytery orchard in thenorth, always somewhat damp, even when the sun shone. 

It was not surprising that these sensations, transformed by time, hadleft in him some traces of pious thought, which grew deeper as his mindembellished them; all this might have fermented indistinctly for thirtyyears, and now began to work. 

But the two other causes which he knew, must have been still moreactive. 

These were his disgust for his life, and his passion for art; and thedisgust was certainly aggravated by his solitude and his idleness. 

After having, in old days, made friends by chance, and having taken theimpression of souls which had nothing in common with his own, he had atlast chosen after much useless vagabondage; he had become the intimatefriend of a certain Doctor des Hermies, a physician, who devoted muchattention to demoniac possession and to mysticism, and of a Breton, named Carhaix, the bell-ringer at St. Sulpice. 

These friendships were not like those he had formerly made, entirelysuperficial and external, they were wide and deep, based on similarityof thought, and the indissoluble ties of soul, and these had beenroughly broken; within two months of each other Des Hermies and Carhaixdied, the former of typhoid fever, the latter of a chill thatprostrated him in his tower, after he had rung the evening Angelus. 

These were frightful blows for Durtal. His life, now without an anchor, drifted; he wandered all astray, declaring to himself that thisdesolation was final, since he had reached an age at which new friendsare not made. 

So he lived alone, apart among his books, but the solitude which he borebravely, when he was occupied, when he was writing a book, becameintolerable to him now that he was idle. He lounged in an arm-chair inthe afternoons, and abandoned himself to his dreams: then, especially, fixed ideas took hold on him, and these ended by playing pantomimes ofwhich the scenes never varied behind the lowered curtain of his eyes. Nude figures danced in his brain to the tune of psalms, and he woke fromthese dreams weak and panting, ready, if a priest had been there, tothrow himself at his feet with tears, just as he would have abandonedhimself to the basest pleasures, had the temptation suddenly come tohim. 

"Let me chase away these phantoms by work, " he cried. But at what shouldhe work? He had just published the "Life of Gilles de Rais, " which mightinterest a few artists, and he now remained without a subject, on thehunt for a book. As, in art, he was a man of extremes, he always wentfrom one excess to the other, and after having dived into the Satanismof the Middle Ages, in his account of "Marshal de Rais, " he saw nothingso interesting to investigate as the life of a saint. Some lines whichhe had discovered in Görres' and Ribet's "Studies in Mysticism" had puthim on the trace of a certain Blessed Lidwine in search of newdocuments. 

But admitting that he could unearth anything about her, could he writethe life of a saint? He did not believe it, and the arguments on whichhe based his opinion seemed plausible. 

Hagiography was now a lost branch of art, as completely lost as woodcarving, and the miniatures of the old missals. Nowadays it is onlytreated by church officers and priests, by those stylistic agents whoseem when they write to put the embryos of their ideas on ballasttrucks, and in their hands it has become a commonplace of goody-goody, atranslation into a book of the statuettes of Froc Robert, and thecoloured images of Bouasse. 

The way then was free, and it seemed at first easy enough to plan itout, but to extract the charm of the legends needed the simple languageof bygone centuries, the ingenuous phrases of the days that are dead. Who in our time can express the melancholy essence, the pale perfume ofthe ancient translations of the Golden Legend of Voragine, how bind inone bright posy the plaintive flowers, which the monks cultivated intheir cloistered enclosures, when hagiography was the sister of thebarbaric and delightful art of the illuminators and glass stainers, ofthe ardent and chaste paintings of the Early Masters?

Yet we may not think of giving ourselves over to studious imitations, nor coldly attempt to ape such works as these. The question remains, whether we can with the present artistic resources, succeed in settingup the humble yet lofty figure of a saint; and this is at leastdoubtful, for the lack of real simplicity, the over-ingenious art ofstyle, the tricks of careful design and the false craft of colour wouldprobably transform the elect lady into a strolling player. She would beno longer a saint, but an actress who rendered the part more or lessadroitly; and then the charm would be destroyed, the miracles would seemmechanical, the episodes would be absurd, then ... Then ... One musthave a lively faith, and believe in the sanctity of one's heroine, ifone would try to exhume her, and put her alive again in a book. 

This is so true that we may examine Gustave Flaubert's admirable pageson the legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller. Their development is like adazzling yet regulated tumult, evolved in superb language whose apparentsimplicity is only due to the complicated ingenuity of consummate skill. All is there, all except the accent which would have made this work atrue masterpiece. Given the subject, the fire which should coursethrough these magnificent phrases is absent, there lacks the cry of thelove that faints, the gift of the superhuman exile, the mystical soul. 

On the other hand, Hello's "Physionomies de Saints" are worth reading. Faith flashes out in each of his portraits, enthusiasm runs over in eachchapter, unexpected allusions form deep reservoirs of thought betweenthe lines; but after all Hello was so little of an artist that thefairest legends fade when his fingers touch them; the meanness of hisstyle impoverishes the miracles and renders them ineffectual. The art islacking which would rescue the book from the category of pale and deadpublications. 

The example of these two men, in complete opposition as ever writerswere, neither of whom attained perfection, one in the legend of St. Julian because faith was wanting, the other because his art was poor andnarrow, thoroughly discouraged Durtal. He ought to be both at once, andyet remain himself, if not, there was no good in buckling to for such atask, it were better to be silent; and he threw himself back in hischair sullen and hopeless. Then the contempt of his desolate life grewupon him, and once more he wondered what interest Providence could havein thus tormenting the descendants of the first convicts. If there wereno answer, he was obliged to admit that the Church in these disastersgathered up the waifs, sheltered the shipwrecked, brought them homeagain, and assured them a resting-place. 

No more than Schopenhauer, whom he had once admired, but whose plan oflabelling every one before death and whose herbarium of dry sorrows hadwearied him, has the Church deceived man, nor sought to decoy him, byboasting the mercy of a life which she knew to be ignoble. 

In all her inspired books she proclaims the horror of fate, and mournsover the enforced task of living. Ecclesiasticus, Ecclesiastes, the bookof Job, the Lamentations of Jeremias manifest this sorrow in their everyline, and the Middle Ages too in the "Imitation of Jesus Christ" cursedexistence, and cried out loudly for death. 

More plainly than Schopenhauer the Church declared that there is nothingto wish for here below, nothing to expect, but where the mere cataloguesof the philosopher stop, the Church went on, overpassing the limits ofthe senses, declared the end of man, and defined his limitations. 

"Then, " he said to himself, "if it be well considered, the vauntedargument of Schopenhauer against the Creator, drawn from the misery andinjustice of the world, is not irrefutable, for the world is not as Godmade it, but as man has refashioned it. "

Before accusing heaven for our ills, it is, no doubt, fitting to examinethrough what phases of consent, through what voluntary falls thecreature has passed, before ending in the gloomy disaster it deplores. We may well curse the vices of our ancestors and our own passions whichbeget the greater part of the woes from which we suffer; we may wellloathe the civilization which has rendered life intolerable to cleanlysouls, and not the Lord, who, perhaps, did not create us to be shot downby cannon in time of war, to be cheated, robbed, and stripped in time ofpeace, by the slave drivers of commerce and the brigands of the moneymarket. 

But that which remains for ever incomprehensible is the initial horror, the horror imposed on each of us, of having to live, and that is amystery no philosophy can explain. 

"Ah!" he went on, "when I think of that horror, that disgust ofexistence which has for years and years increased in me, I understandhow I am forced to make for the Church, the only port where I can findshelter. 

"Once I despised her, because I had a staff on which to lean when thegreat winds of weariness blew; I believed in my novels, I worked at myhistory, I had my art. I have come to recognize its absolute inadequacy, its complete incapacity to afford happiness. Then I understood thatPessimism was, at most, good to console those who had no real need ofcomfort; I understood that its theories, alluring when we are young, andrich, and well, become singularly weak and lamentably false, when ageadvances, when infirmities declare themselves, when all around iscrumbling. 

"I went to the church, that hospital for souls. There, at least, theytake you in, put you to bed and nurse you, they do not merely turn theirbacks on you as in the wards of Pessimism and tell you the name of yourdisease. "

Finally Durtal had been brought back to religion by art. More even thanhis disgust for life, art had been the irresistible magnet which drewhim to God. The day, when out of curiosity and to kill time, he hadentered a church, and after so many years of forgetfulness, had heardthe Vespers for the dead fall heavily, psalm after psalm, in antiphonalchant, as the singers threw up, like ditchers, their shovelful ofverses, his soul had been shaken to its depths. The evenings when he hadlistened at St. Sulpice to the admirable chanting during the Octave ofAll Souls, he had felt himself caught once for all; but that which hadput most pressure on him, and brought him yet more completely intobondage were the ceremonies and music of Holy Week. 

He had visited the churches during that week; and they had opened to himlike palaces ruined, like cemeteries laid waste by God. They wereforbidding with their veiled images, their crucifixes wrappedlozenge-wise in purple, their organs dumb, their bells silent. The crowdflowed in, busy, but noiseless, along the floor over the immense crossformed by the nave and the two transepts, and entering by the wounds ofwhich the doors were figures, they went up to the altar, where theblood-stained head of Christ would lie, and there on their knees eagerlykissed the crucifix which marked the place of the chin below the steps. 

And the crowd itself, as it ran in the cruciform mould of the church, became itself an enormous cross, living and crawling, silent and sombre. 

At St. Sulpice, where the whole assembled seminary lamented the ignominyof human justice and the fore-ordained death of a God, Durtal hadfollowed the incomparable offices of those mournful days, through alltheir black minutes, had listened to the infinite sadness of thePassion, so nobly and profoundly expressed at Tenebrĉ by the slowchanting of the Lamentations and the Psalms, but when he thought itover, that which above all made him shudder was the thought of theVirgin coming on the scene on the Thursday at nightfall. 

The Church, till then absorbed in her sorrow, and prostrate before theCross, raised herself and fell a-weeping on beholding the Mother. 

By all the voices of the choir, it pressed round Mary, endeavouring toconsole her, mixing the tears of the "Stabat Mater" with her own, sighing out that music of plaintive weeping, pressing the wound of thatsequence, which gave forth water and blood like the wound of ChristHimself. 

Durtal left the church, worn out with these long services, but histemptations to unbelief were gone; he had no further doubt; it seemed tohim that at St. Sulpice, grace mixed with the eloquent splendours of theliturgies, and that in the dim sorrow of the voices there had beenappeals to him; and he therefore felt filial gratitude to that churchwhere he had lived through hours so sweet and sad. 

Yet, in ordinary weeks he did not go there; it seemed to him too greatand too cold, and it was so ugly. He preferred warmer and smallersanctuaries, in which there were still traces of the Middle Ages. 

Thus on idle days when he came out of the Louvre, where he had strayedfor a long time before the canvases of the Early Painters, he was wontto take refuge in the old church of St. Severin, hidden away in a cornerof the poorer part of Paris. 

He carried with him the visions of the canvases he had admired at theLouvre, and contemplated them again, in this surrounding where they werethoroughly at home. 

Then he spent delightful moments, in which he was carried away in theclouds of harmony, divided by the white splendour of a child's voiceflashing out from the rolling thunder of the organ. 

There, without even praying, he felt a plaintive languor, a vagueuneasiness steal over him; St. Severin delighted him, aided him morethan other churches on some days to gain an indescribable impression ofjoy and pity, sometimes even, when he thought of the filth of hissenses, to weave together the regret and the terror of his soul. 

He often went there, especially on Sunday mornings to High Mass at teno'clock. 

He was wont to place himself behind the high altar, in that melancholyand delicate apse, planted like a winter garden with rare and somewhatfantastic trees. It might have been called a petrified arbour of veryold trunks in flower, but stripped of leaf, forests of pillars, squaredor cut in broad panels, carved with regular notches near the base, hollowed through their whole length like rhubarb stalks, channelled likecelery. 

No vegetation expanded at the summit of those trunks which bent theirnaked boughs along the vaulting, joined and met and gathered at theirjunction, and thin, engrafted knots, extravagant bunches of heraldicroses, armorial flowers with open tracery; and for more than fourhundred years no sap had run, no bud had formed in these trees. Theshafts bent for ever remained untouched, the white bark of these pillarswas scarcely worn, but the greater part of the flowers were withered, the heraldic petals were wanting, some keystones of the arches had onlystratified calices, open like nests, with holes like sponges, in ragslike handfuls of russet lace. 

And among this mystic flora, amid these petrified trees, there was one, strange and charming, which suggested the fanciful idea, that the bluesmoke of the rolling incense had condensed, and, as it coagulated, hadgrown pale with age, to form, in twisting, the spiral of a column whichwas inverted on itself, and ended broadening out into a sheaf, whereofthe broken stems fell from above the arches. 

The corner where Durtal took refuge was faintly lighted by pointedstained windows, with black diamond-shaped divisions set with minutepanes darkened by the accumulated dust of years, rendered still moreobscure by the woodwork of the chapels, which cut off half theirsurface. 

This apse might have been called a frozen grove of skeleton trees, aconservatory of dead specimens belonging to the palm family, calling upthe memory of an impossible phoenix and unlikely palms; but it alsorecalled by its half-moon shape and doubtful light, the image of aship's prow below water. In fact it allowed to filter through its bars, to its windows trellised with all black network, the murmur, suggestedby the rolling of the carriages which shook the street, of a river whichsifted the golden light of day through the briny course of its waters. 

On Sundays, at the time of High Mass, the apse was empty. The publicfilled the nave before the high altar, or spread themselves somewhatfurther into a chapel dedicated to Our Lady. Durtal was therefore almostalone, and even the people who crossed his refuge were neither stupidnor hostile, like the faithful in other churches. In this district werebeggars, the very poor, hucksters, Sisters of Charity, rag pickers, street arabs; above all, there were women in tatters walking on tiptoe, who knelt without looking round, poor creatures overwhelmed by thepiteous splendour of the altars, looking out of the corner of theireyes, and bending low when the Suisse passed them. 

Touched by the timidity of this silent misery, Durtal listened to themass chanted by a scanty choir, but one patiently taught. The choir ofSt. Severin intoned the Credo, that marvel of plain chant, better thanit was done at St. Sulpice, where, however, the offices were as a rulesolemn and correct. It bore it, as it were, to the top of the choir, and let it spread with its great wings open and almost without motion, above the prostrate flock, when the verse "Et homo factus est" took itsslow and reverent flight in the low voice of the singer. It was at oncemonumental and fluid, indestructible like the articles of the Creeditself, inspired like the text, which the Holy Spirit dictated, in theirlast meeting, to the united apostles of Christ. 

At St. Severin a powerful voice declaimed a verse as a solo, then allthe children, sustained by the rest of the singers, delivered theothers, and the unchangeable truths declared themselves in their order, more attentive, more grave, more accentuated, even a little plaintive inthe solo voice of a man, more timid perhaps, but also more familiar andmore joyous, in the dash, however restrained, of the boys. 

At such a moment Durtal was roused, and exclaimed within himself: "It isimpossible that the alluvial deposits of Faith which have created thismusical certainty are false. The accent of these declarations is such asto be superhuman, and far from profane music, which has never attainedto the solid grandeur of this naked chant. "

The whole mass, moreover, at St. Severin was perfect. The "Kyrieeleison, " solemn and sumptuous, the "Gloria in excelsis, " shared by thegrand and the choir organs, the one taking the solos, the other guidingand sustaining the singers, was full of exultant joy; the "Sanctus, "concentrated, almost haggard, resounded through the arches when thechoir shouted the "Hosanna in excelsis, " and the "Agnus Dei" was sunglow to a clear, suppliant melody, so humble that it dared not becomeloud. 

Indeed, except for a contraband "O Salutaris, " introduced there as inother churches, St. Severin maintained, on ordinary Sundays, the musicalliturgy, sang it almost reverentially with the fragile but well-tonedvoices of the boys, the solidly built basses bringing vigorous soundsfrom the deep. 

It was a joy to Durtal to linger in the delightful surroundings of theMiddle Ages, in that shadowy loneliness, amid the chants which rosebehind him, without being annoyed by tricks of the mouths which he couldnot see. 

He ended by being moved to the very marrow, choked by nervous tears, andall the bitterness of his life came up before him; full of vague fears, of confused prayers which stifled him, and found no words, he cursed theignominy of his life and swore to master his carnal affections. 

When the mass was over, he wandered in the church itself, and wasdelighted with the spring of the nave, which four centuries built andsealed with their arms, placing on it those strange impressions, thosewonderful seals which expand in relief under the reversed groining ofthe arches. These centuries combined to bring to the feet of Christ thesuperhuman effort of their art, and the gifts of each are still visible. The thirteenth century shaped those low and stunted pillars, whosecapitals are crowned with water-lilies, water-parsley, foliage withlarge leaves, voluted with crochets and turned in the form of a crosier. The fourteenth century raised the columns of the neighbouring bays onthe sides of which prophets, monks and saints uphold the spring of thearches. The fifteenth and sixteenth created the apse, the sanctuary, some windows pierced above the choir, and though they have been restoredby incompetent builders, they have still retained a barbaric grace, anda really touching simplicity. 

They seem to have been designed by ancestors of the Epinal foundries, and stained by them with crude colours. The donors and the saints whopass through these bright, stone-framed pictures are all awkward andpensive, dressed in robes of gamboge, bottle-green, prussian-blue, gooseberry-red, pumpkin-purple and wine lees, and these are made stilldeeper by contact with the flesh tints, either omitted or destroyed, which have at any rate remained uncoloured like a thin skin of glass. Inone of these windows Christ on His cross seems limpid, all in light, between blue splashes of sky, and the red and green patches, formed bythe wings of the two angels whose faces also seem cut in crystal andfull of light. 

These windows differ from those of other churches, in that they absorbthe rays of the sun, without refracting them. No doubt they have beendeliberately divested of reflection that they may not by the insolentjoyousness of stones on fire insult the melancholy sorrow of this churchwhich rises in the squalid haunts of a quarter inhabited by beggars andthieves. 

Then these thoughts assailed Durtal. In Paris the modern churches areuseless, they remain deaf to the prayers which break against the icyindifference of their walls. No man recollects himself in those naveswhere souls have left nothing of themselves, or where they have perhapsgiven themselves away, have had to turn and fall back on themselves, rebuffed by the insolence of a photographic glare, darkened by theneglect of those altars at which no saint has ever said mass. It seemedthat God had always gone out, and would only come home to keep Hispromise to appear at the moment of consecration, and that He wouldretire immediately afterwards, despising these edifices which have notbeen built expressly for Him, since by the baseness of their form theymight be put to any profane use, since above all they do not bring Him, in default of sanctity, the only gift which might please Him, the giftof art which He has lent to man, and which allows Him to see Himself inthe abridged restitution of His work, and to rejoice in the developmentof that flower of which He has sowed the seed in souls which He hascarefully chosen, in souls which are truly the elect, second only tothose of His Saints. 

Ah, those charitable churches of the Middle Ages, those chapels damp andsmoky, full of ancient song, of exquisite paintings, of the odour ofextinguished tapers, of the perfume of burning incense!

In Paris there remain now only a few specimens of this art of otheryears, a few sanctuaries whose stones really exude the Faith; amongthese St. Severin seemed to Durtal the most exquisite and the mostcertain. He only felt at home there, he believed that if he could everpray in earnest he could do it in that church; and he said to himselfthat there lived the spirit of the fabric. It is impossible but that theburning prayers, the hopeless sobs of the Middle Ages, have not for everimpregnated the pillars and stained the walls; it is impossible but thatthe vine of sorrows whence of old the Saints gathered warm clusters oftears, has not preserved from those wonderful times emanations whichsustain, a breath which still awakes a shame for sin, and the gift oftears. 

As Saint Agnes remained immaculate in the brothels, this church remainedintact amid infamous surroundings, when all near it in the streets fromthe Château Rouge to the Cremerie Alexandre, only two paces off, themodern rabble of rascality combine their misdeeds, mingling withprostitutes their brewage of crime, their adulterated absinthe andspirits. 

In this especial territory of Satanism, the church rises, delicate andlittle, closely enveloped in the rags of taverns and hovels, and seenfar off, raises above the roofs its light spire, like a netting needle, its point below, and lifting its eye into the light and air, throughwhich can be seen a minute bell surmounting a sort of anvil. Such itappears, at least, from the Place Saint André des Arts. Symbolically itmight be called a piteous appeal, always rejected by souls hardened andhammered by vice, of that anvil which was only an optical illusion, andthat very real bell. 

"They say, " thought Durtal, "they say that ignorant architects andunskilled archĉologists wish to free St. Severin from its rags, andsurround it with trees in an enclosed square. But it has always lived inits network of black streets, and is voluntarily humble, in accordancewith the miserable district it aids. In the Middle Ages the church was amonument seen only within, and not one of those impetuous basilicaswhich are put up as a show in open spaces. 

"Then it was an oratory for the poor, a church on its knees, and notstanding; it would, therefore, be the most absolute nonsense to free itfrom its surroundings, to take it out of the day of an eternal twilight, out of those hours of shadow which brighten the melancholy beauty of aservant in prayer behind the impious hedge of hovels. 

"Ah, were it possible to steep the church in the glowing atmosphere ofNotre Dame des Victoires, and join to its meagre psalmody the powerfulchoir of St. Sulpice, that would be complete, " said Durtal, "but alas, here below, nothing whole, nothing perfect exists!"

Indeed from an artistic point of view, it was the only church whichsatisfied him, for Notre Dame de Paris was too grand, and too muchoverrun by tourists; there were few ceremonies there, just the necessaryamount of prayers were weighed out, and the greater part of the chapelsremained closed; and lastly the voices of the choir boys always wantedmending; they broke, while the advanced age of the basses made themhoarse. At St. Etienne du Mont it was worse still; the shell of thechurch was charming, but the choir was an offshoot of the school ofSanfourche, you might think yourself in a kennel, where a medley pack ofsick beasts were growling; as for the other sanctuaries on the rightbank of the river, they were worthless, plain chant was as far aspossible suppressed, and the poverty of the voices was everywhereornamented with promiscuous tunes. 

Yet on the right bank were the more self-respecting churches, forreligious Paris stops on that side of the Seine, and comes to an end asyou pass the bridges. 

In fact, to sum up all, he might believe that St. Severin by its scent, and the delightful art of its old nave, St. Sulpice by its ceremoniesand its chanting, had brought him back towards Christian art, which inits turn had directed him to God. 

Then when once urged on this way, he had pursued it, had leftarchitecture and music, to wander in the mystic territories of the otherarts, and his long visits to the Louvre, his researches into thebreviaries, into the books of Ruysbröck, Angela da Foligno, SaintTeresa, Saint Catherine of Genoa, Saint Magdalen of Pazzi, had confirmedhim in his belief. 

But the upheaval of all his ideas which he had undergone was too recentfor his soul at once to regain its equilibrium. From time to time itseemed to wish to go back, and he discussed with himself in order to setit at rest. He spent himself in disputation, came to doubt the realityof his conversion, and said: "After all I am united to the church onlyon the side of art. I only go there to see or hear and not to pray; I donot seek the Lord, but my own pleasure. This is not business. Just as ina warm bath I do not feel the cold if I am motionless, but if I move Ifreeze, so in the church my impulses are upset when I move, I am almoston fire in the nave, less warm in the porch, and I become perfectly icyoutside. These are literary postulates, vibrations of the nerves, skirmishes of thought, spiritual brawls, whatever you please, exceptFaith. "

But what disquieted him still more than the need of helps to feeling, was that his shameless senses rebelled at the contact of religiousideas. He floated like wreckage between Licentiousness and the Church, they each threw him back in turn, obliging him as he approached one toreturn at once to that which he had left, and he was inclined to ask ifhe were not a victim to some mystification of his lower instincts, seeking to revive themselves, without his consciousness, by the cordialof a false piety. 

In fact he had often seen realized in himself that unclean miracle, whenhe had left St. Severin, almost in tears. Insensibly, without connectionof ideas, without any welding together of sensations, without theexplosion of a spark, his senses took fire, and he was powerless to letthem burn themselves out, to resist them. 

He loathed himself afterwards, and it was high time. Then came thereverse movement; he longed to run to some chapel, there to wash and beclean, and he was so disgusted with himself that now and then he went asfar as the door and dared not enter. 

At other times, on the contrary, he rebelled against himself, and criedin fury: "It is monstrous, I have in fact spoiled for myself the onlypleasure that remained to me--the flesh. Once I amused myself withoutblame, now I pay for my poor debauches with torments. I have added onemore weariness to existence--would that I could undo it. "

He lied to himself in vain, trying to justify himself by suggestingdoubts. 

"Suppose all this were not true, if there were nothing in it, if I weredeceiving myself, what if the freethinkers were right?"

But he was obliged to be sorry for himself, for he felt distinctly tothe bottom of his soul, that he held unshaken the certitude of trueFaith. 

"These discussions are miserable, and the excuses I make for myfilthinesses are odious, " he said to himself, and a flame of enthusiasmsprang up within him. 

How doubt the truth of dogmas, how deny the divine power of the Church, for she commands assent?

First she has her superhuman art and her mysticism, then she is mostwonderful in the persistent folly of conquered heresies. All since theworld began have had the flesh as their spring-board. Logically andhumanly speaking they should have triumphed, for they allowed man andwoman to satisfy their passions, saying to themselves there was no sinin these, even sanctifying them as the Gnostics, rendering homage to Godby the foulest uncleanness. 

All have suffered shipwreck. The Church, unbending in this matter, hasremained upright and entire. She orders the body to be silent, and thesoul to suffer, and contrary to all probability, humanity listens toher, and sweeps away like a dung-heap the seductive joys proposed toher. 

Again, the vitality of the Church is decision, which preserves her inspite of the unfathomable stupidity of her sons. She has resisted thedisquieting folly of the clergy, and has not even been broken up by theawkwardness and lack of ability in her defenders, a very strong point. 

"No, the more I think of her, " he cried, "the more I think herprodigious, unique, the more I am convinced that she alone holds thetruth, that outside her are only weaknesses of mind, impostures, scandals. The Church is the divine breeding ground, the heavenlydispensary of souls; she gives them suck, nourishes them, and healsthem; she bids them understand, when the hour of sorrow comes, that truelife begins, not at birth, but at death. The Church is indefectible, before all things admirable, she is great--

"Yes, but then we must follow her directions and practise the sacramentsshe orders!"

And Durtal, shaking his head, gave himself no further answer. 

CHAPTER III. 

Before his conversion he had said like all unbelievers: "If I believedthat Jesus Christ is God, and that eternal life is not a decoy, I wouldnot hesitate to change all my habits, to follow as far as possible therules of religion, and, in any case, to live chaste. " And he wassurprised that people he knew, who were in these conditions, did notmaintain an attitude higher than his own. He who had so long indulgentlyforgiven himself became singularly intolerant, so soon as he had to dowith a Catholic. 

He now understood the injustice of his judgments, and confessed thatbetween faith and practice was a gulf difficult to overpass. 

He did not like to discuss this question with himself, but it returnedand took possession of him all the same, and he was obliged to admit themeanness of his arguments, the despicable reasons for his resistance. 

He was still honest enough to say: "I am no longer a child; if I haveFaith, if I admit Catholicism, I cannot conceive it as lukewarm andunfixed, warmed up again and again in the saucepan of a false zeal. Iwill have no compromise or truce, no alternations of debauch andcommunions, no stages of licentiousness and piety, no, all or nothing;to change from top to bottom, or not change at all. "

Then he drew back in alarm, endeavoured to escape the part he was aboutto take, endeavoured to exculpate himself, cavilling for hours, invokingthe most wretched motives for remaining as he was, and not budging ajot. 

"What am I to do? If I do not obey orders, which I feel with increasingforce, I am preparing for myself a life of uneasiness and remorse, for Iknow well I ought not to remain for ever on the threshold, but topenetrate into the sanctuary and stay there. And if I make up mymind--no indeed--for then I must bind myself to a heap of observances, bend to a series of rules, assist at mass on Sunday, abstain on Friday, live like a bigot, and look like a fool. "

And then to help his revolt, he thought of the air, the look of peoplewho frequented the churches; for two men who looked intelligent andclean, how many were without doubt rascals and impostors!

Almost all had a side-long look, an oily voice, downcast eyes, immovablespectacles, clothes like sacristans as if of black wood, almost all toldthin beads ostentatiously, and with more strategy and more knavery thanthe wicked, took toll from their neighbours on leaving God. 

The devout women were still less reassuring, they invaded the church, walking about as if quite at home, disturbing everybody, upsettingchairs, knocking against you without begging pardon; then they kneltdown with much ado, in the attitude of contrite angels, murmuredinterminable paternosters, and left the church more arrogant and sourthan before. 

"It is not encouraging to have to mix with this flock of pious geese, "he exclaimed. 

But soon, against his will, he made answer to himself: "You have nothingto do with others, were you more humble, these people would certainlyseem less offensive; at any rate they have the courage you lack, theyare not ashamed of their faith, and are not afraid to kneel to God inpublic. "

And Durtal remained dumfounded, for he had to admit that the ripostestruck home. It was clear his humility was at fault, but what was worse, he could not free himself from human respect. 

He was afraid of being taken for a fool; the prospect of being seen onhis knees, in church, made his hair stand on end; the idea, that, if heever had to communicate, he would have to rise and go to the altar inthe sight of all, was intolerable to him. 

"If that moment ever come it will be hard to bear, " said he; "and yet Iam an idiot, for what have I to do with the opinion of people I do notknow?" but much as he might repeat that his alarms were absurd, hecould not get over them, or free himself from the fear of ridicule. 

"After all, " he said, "even if I decide to jump the ditch, to confessand communicate, that terrible question of the senses would always haveto be resolved. I must determine to fly the lusts of the flesh, andaccept perpetual abstinence. I could never attain to that. 

"Without counting that in any case, the time would be ill-chosen were Inow to make such an effort, for never have I been so tormented as sincemy conversion; Catholicism unfortunately excites unclean suggestionswhen I prowl about it, without entering. "

And to this exclamation another answered at once: "Yes, but you mustenter. "

He was irritated at this change of front without change of place, and hetried to turn the conversation, as though it had been held with another, whose questions perplexed him; but he came back to it all the same, and, in his annoyance, summoned all his reasoning powers to his aid. 

"Come, let us try to take stock at any rate! It is plain that as I havedrawn near the Church, my unclean desires have become more frequent andmore persistent; and yet another fact is certain that I have been soused up by twenty years of debauchery that I ought not to have anyfurther carnal appetites. In fact, if I chose it, I could perfectly wellremain chaste; but then I must bid my miserable brain be silent, and Ihave no power to do so! It is frightful all the same that I am moreexcited than in youth, for now my desires go a-travelling, and sincethey have not their ordinary shelter they go off in search of evilhaunts. How may this be explained? It is a sort of dyspepsia of thesoul, which cannot digest ordinary meats, and tries to feed on spiceddreams, highly seasoned thoughts; it is then want of appetite forwholesome meals which has begotten this greediness for strange dishes, this trouble of the mind, this wish to escape from myself, and jump wereit but for a moment over the permitted limits of the senses. 

"In that case Catholicism would play a part at once repellent anddepressing. It would stimulate these sick desires, and weaken me at thesame time, would give me over to nervous emotions without strength toresist them. "

Wandering thus in self-examination, he came to a dead stand where was noissue, arriving at this conclusion: "I do not practise my religion, because I yield to my baser instincts, and I yield to these instinctsbecause I do not practise my religion. "

Brought up thus by a dead wall, he resisted, asking if this lastobservation were indeed true; for, after all, nothing proved that if heapproached the Sacraments he would not be attacked with even greaterviolence. It was even probable he would be, for the devil makes a deadset at pious people. 

Then he rebelled against the cowardice of these remarks, and cried: "Ilie, for I know well, that if I made the least sign of resistance, Ishould be powerfully aided from on high. "

Clever at self-torture, he continued to harass his soul, always on thesame line. "Suppose, " he said, "for the sake of argument, that I havetamed my pride, and subdued my body, suppose that at present there werenothing to do, but to go forward, I am still brought up, for the finalobstacle terrifies me. 

"Up to now I have been able to walk alone, without earthly assistance, without advice; I have been converted without the help of anyone, butnow I cannot make a step without a guide, I cannot approach the altarwithout the aid of an interpreter, and the bulwark of a priest. "

And once more, he drew back, for in former times he had been intimatewith a certain number of ecclesiastics, and had found them so mediocre, so lukewarm, above all so hostile to Mysticism, that he was revolted atthe very notion of laying before them the schedule of his requirementsand his regrets. 

"They will not understand me, " he thought; "they will answer thatMysticism was interesting in the Middle Ages, but has now become disusedand is in any case quite out of touch with the modern spirit. They willthink me mad, will assure me, moreover, that God does not want so much, will advise me with a smile, not to make myself singular, to do asothers, and to think like them. 

"I have indeed no intention of entering on the way of Mysticism, butthey may at least allow me to envy it and not inflict on me theirmiddle-class ideal of a God. 

"For, not to deceive oneself, Catholicism is not only that moderatereligion that they offer us; it is not composed only of petty cases andformulas; it is not wholly confined to rigid observances, and the toysof old maids, to all that goody-goody business, which spreads itselfabroad in the Rue Saint Sulpice; it is far more exalted, far purer, butthen we must penetrate its burning zone, and seek in Mysticism, the art, the essence, and the very soul of the Church. 

"Using the powerful means at her disposal, we then have to emptyourselves, and strip the soul, so that Christ if He will may enter it;we have to purify the house, to cleanse it with the disinfectant ofprayer and the sublimate of Sacraments; in a word, to be ready when theGuest shall come and bid us to empty ourselves wholly into Him, as Hewill pour Himself into us. 

"I know thoroughly well, that this divine alchemy, this transmutation ofthe human creature into God, is generally impossible, for the Saviour, as a rule, keeps His singular favours for His elect; but after all, every one, however unworthy, is presumably able to attain that majesticend, since God only decides, and not man, whose humble acquiescencealone is requisite. 

"I see myself saying that to the priests! They will tell me I have nobusiness with mystical ideas, and will give me in exchange the pettyreligion of rich women; they will wish to mix themselves up with mylife, to inquire about the state of my soul, to insinuate their owntastes; they will try to convince me that art is dangerous, willsermonize me with imbecile talk, and pour over me their flowing bowls ofpious veal broth. 

"I know what I am; at the end of a couple of interviews I shall rebel, and become wicked. "

Durtal shook his head, remained in thought, and began again, --

"Yet one must be just; perhaps the secular clergy are only the leavings, for the contemplative orders and the missionary army carry away everyyear the pick of the spiritual basket; the mystics, priests athirst forsorrows, drunk with sacrifice, bury themselves in cloisters or exilethemselves among savages whom they teach. So when the cream is off, therest of the clergy are plainly but skim milk, the scourings of theseminaries. 

"Yes, but after all, " he continued, "the question is not whether theyare intelligent or narrow, it is not my business to take the priest topieces to discover under the consecrated rind the nothingness of theman; not my business to abuse his inadequacy since it is thoroughlysuited to the understanding of the crowd. Would it not be, after all, more courageous and more humble to kneel before a being of whose brainsyou know the weakness?

"And then ... Then ... I am not reduced to that, for indeed I know onein Paris, a true mystic. Suppose I go and see him!"

And he thought of a certain Abbé Gévresin, with whom he had formerlysome acquaintance; he had often met him at a bookseller's in the RueServandoni, old Tocane, who had rare books on liturgy and the lives ofthe saints. 

Learning that Durtal was looking for works on Blessed Lidwine, thepriest was at once interested in him, and on leaving the shop they had along conversation. The abbé was very old and walked with difficulty, therefore he willingly took Durtal's arm, who saw him home. 

"The life of that victim of the sins of her time is a magnificentsubject, " he said; "you remember it, do you not?" and as they walked hesketched its lines, broadly. 

"Lidwine was born towards the end of the fourteenth century, atSchiedam, in Holland. Her beauty was extraordinary, but she lost itthrough illness at the age of fifteen. She recovered, but while skatingone day with her companions on the frozen canals, she fell and broke arib. From the time of that accident to her death she was bed-ridden. Shewas afflicted with most frightful ailments, her wounds festered, andworms bred in her putrefying flesh. Erysipelas, that terrible malady ofthe Middle Ages, consumed her. Her right arm was eaten away, a singlemuscle held it to the body, her brow was cleft in two, one of her eyesbecame blind, and the other so weak that it could not bear the light. 

"While she was in this condition, the plague ravaged Holland, anddecimated the town in which she lived; she was the first attacked. Twoboils formed, one under her arm, the other above the heart. 'Two boils, it is well, ' she said to the Lord, 'but three would be better in honourof the Holy Trinity, ' and immediately a third pustule broke out on herface. 

"For thirty-five years she lived in a cellar, taking no solid food, praying and weeping, so chilly in winter, that each morning her tearsformed two frozen streams down her cheeks. 

"She thought herself still too fortunate, and entreated the Lord not tospare her, and obtained from Him the grace that by her sufferings shemight expiate the sins of others. Christ heard her prayers, visited herwith His angels, communicated her with His own hand, gave her thedelight of heavenly ecstasies, and caused her festering wounds to exhaledelicious perfumes. 

"At the moment of her death He stood by her, and restored her poor bodyto its former soundness. Her beauty, so long vanished, shone out again, the town was moved, the sick came in crowds, and all who drew near werehealed. 

"She is the true patroness of the sick, " concluded the abbé, and, aftera silence, he added, --

"From the point of view of the higher mysticism, Lidwine is wonderful, for in her we can verify that plan of substitution which was, and is, the glorious reason for the existence of convents. "

And as, without answering, Durtal questioned him with a look, he wenton, --

"You are aware, sir, that in all ages, nuns have offered themselves toheaven as expiatory victims. The lives of saints, both men and women, who desired these sacrifices abound, of those who atoned for the sins ofothers by sufferings eagerly demanded and patiently borne. But there isa task still more arduous and more painful than was desired by theseadmirable souls. It is not now that of purging the faults of others, butof preventing them, hindering their commission, by taking the place ofthose who are too weak to bear the shock. 

"Read Saint Teresa on this subject; you will see that she gainedpermission to take on herself, and without flinching, the temptations ofa priest who could not endure them. This substitution of a strong soulfreeing one who is not strong from perils and fears is one of the greatrules of mysticism. 

"Sometimes this exchange is purely spiritual, sometimes on the contraryit has to do only with the ills of the body. Saint Teresa was thesurrogate of souls in torment, Sister Catherine Emmerich took the placeof the sick, relieved, at least, those who were most suffering; thus, for instance, she was able to undergo the agony of a woman sufferingfrom consumption and dropsy, in order to permit her to prepare for deathin peace. 

"Well, Lidwine took on herself all bodily ills, she lusted for physicalsuffering, and was greedy for wounds; she was, as it were, the reaper ofpunishments, and she was also the piteous vessel in which everyonedischarged the overflowings of his malady. If you would speak of her inother fashion than the poor hagiographies of our day, study first thatlaw of substitution, that miracle of perfect charity, that superhumantriumph of Mysticism; that will be the stem of your book, and naturally, without effort, all Lidwine's acts graft themselves on it. "

"But, " asked Durtal, "does this law still take effect?"

"Yes: I know convents which apply it. Moreover, Orders like theCarmelites and the Poor Clares willingly accept the transfer to them oftemptations we suffer; then these convents take on their backs, so tospeak, the diabolical expiations of those insolvent souls whose debtsthey pay to the full. "

"All the same, " said Durtal, shaking his head, "if you consent to takeon yourself the assaults intended for your neighbour, you must makepretty sure not to sink. "

"The nuns chosen by our Lord, " replied the abbé, "as victims ofexpiation, as whole burnt-offerings, are in fact few, and they aregenerally, especially in this age, obliged to unite and coalesce inorder to bear without failing the weight of misdeeds which try them, forin order that a soul may bear alone the assaults of Satan, which areoften terrible, it must be indeed assisted by the angels and elect ofGod. " And after a silence the old priest added, --

"I believe I may speak with some experience in these matters, for I amone of the directors of those nuns who make reparation in theirconvents. "

"And yet, " cried Durtal, "the world asks what is the good of thecontemplative Orders. "

"They are the lightning conductors of society, " said the abbé, withgreat energy. "They draw on themselves the demoniacal fluid, they absorbtemptations to vice, preserve by their prayers those who live, likeourselves, in sin; they appease, in fact, the wrath of the Most Highthat He may not place the earth under an interdict. Ah! while thesisters who devote themselves to nursing the sick and infirm are indeedadmirable, their task is easy in comparison with that undertaken by thecloistered Orders, the Orders where penance never ceases, and the verynights spent in bed are broken by sobs. "

"This priest is far more interesting than his brethren, " said Durtal tohimself as they parted; and, as the abbé invited his visits, he hadoften called on him. 

He had always been cordially welcomed. On several occasions he hadwarily sounded the old man on several questions. He had answeredevasively in regard to other priests. But he did not seem to think muchof them, if Durtal might judge by what he said one day in regard toLidwine, that magnet of sorrows. 

"Notice, " he said, "that a weak and honest soul has every advantage inchoosing a confessor, not from the clergy who have lost the sense ofMysticism, but from the monks. They alone know the effects of the law ofsubstitution, and if they see that in spite of their efforts thepenitent succumbs, they end by freeing him by taking his trials onthemselves, or by sending them off to some convent in the country whereresolute people can use them. "

Another time the question of nationalities was discussed in a newspaperwhich Durtal showed him. The abbé shrugged his shoulders, putting asidethe patriotic twaddle. "For me, " he said calmly, "for me my country isthat where I can best pray. "

Durtal could not make out what this priest was. He understood from thebookseller, that the Abbé Gévresin on account of his great age andinfirmity was incapacitated for the regular duties of the priesthood. "Iknow that, when he can, he still says his mass each morning in aconvent; I believe also he receives a few of his brethren for confessionin his own house;" and Tocane added with disdain, "He has barely enoughto live on, and they do not look on him with favour at the archbishop'sbecause of his mystical notions. "

There ended all he knew about him. "He is evidently a very good priest, "repeated Durtal; "his physiognomy declares it, and his mouth and eyescontradict each other; his eyes certainly declare his entire goodness, his lips, somewhat thick, purple and always moist, have on them anaffectionate but somewhat sad smile, and to this his blue eyes give thelie--blue, childlike eyes which laugh out astonished under whiteeyebrows in a rather red face, touched on the cheeks like a ripeapricot, with little points of blood. 

"In any case, " said Durtal, waking from his meditations, "I am verywrong not to continue the relations into which I have entered with him. 

"Yes, but then nothing is so difficult as to become really intimate witha priest; first by the very education he receives at the seminary theecclesiastic thinks himself obliged to disperse his affections and notconcentrate himself on particular friendships; then, like a doctor, heis a man harassed with business, who is never to be found. You can catchthem now and then between two confessions or two sick calls. Nor eventhen are you quite certain that the eager welcome of the priest ringstrue, for he is just the same to all who come to him, and indeed, sinceI do not call on the Abbé Gévresin for his help or advice, I am afraidof being in his way, and of taking up his time, hence I am acting withdiscretion in not going to see him. 

"Yet I am sorry; suppose I write, or go to him one morning, but whathave I to say to him? I ought to know what I want before I allow myselfto trouble him. If I go only to complain, he will answer I am wrong notto be a communicant, and I have nothing to answer. No: the better planis to meet him as by chance, on the quays, where no doubt he sometimeslooks over the book-stalls, or at Tocane's, for then I can talk to himmore intimately, at least less officially, about my vacillations andregrets. "

So Durtal searched the quays, and never once met the abbé. He went tothe bookseller's, and pretended to look over his stock, but as soon ashe pronounced the name Gévresin, Tocane exclaimed, "I have heard nothingof him, he has not been here for the last two months. "

"I will not turn back, but just disturb him in his own house, " saidDurtal, "but he will wonder why I came back after so long an absence. Besides the awkwardness I feel in calling on people whom I haveneglected, I am also troubled by thinking the abbé may suspect someinterested object in my visit. That is not convenient; if I had but agood pretext; there is certainly that life of Lidwine which interestshim, I might consult him on various points. Yes, but which? I have notconcerned myself with that saint for a long time, and must read overagain the meagre old books on her biography. After all, it will besimpler and better to be frank, and say, 'This is why I have come; Iwant to ask advice, which I have not determined to follow, but I have somuch need of speaking, of giving the reins to my soul, that I beg you tobe so kind as to lose an hour for my sake. '

"He will do it certainly and willingly. 

"Then that is agreed on; suppose I go to-morrow?" But he checked himselfat once. "There was nothing pressing; there was plenty of time; bettertake time and think; ah, yes, here is Christmas close upon us, I cannotdecently trouble a priest who has his penitents to confess, for thereare many communicants on that day. Let him get his hard work over, andthen we will see. "

He was at first pleased at having invented that excuse, then he had toadmit in his heart that, after all, there was not much in it, for therewas nothing to show that this priest, who was not attached to a parish, was busy in hearing confessions. 

It was hardly probable, but he tried to convince himself that it mightbe so after all, and his hesitation began again. Angry at last with thediscussion, he adopted a middle course. For greater certainty, he wouldnot call on the abbé till after Christmas, but he would not be laterthan a given time; he took an almanack, and swore to keep hispromise--three days after that feast. 

CHAPTER IV. 

Oh! that midnight mass! He had had the unfortunate idea of going to itat Christmas. He went to St. Severin, and found a young ladies' dayschool installed there, instead of the choir, who, with sharp voiceslike needles, knitted the worn-out skeins of the canticles. He had fledto St. Sulpice, and plunged into a crowd which walked and talked as ifin the open air; had heard there choral-society marches, tea-gardenwaltzes, firework tunes, and had come away in a rage. 

It had seemed to him superfluous to try St. Germain-des-Près, for heheld that church in horror. Besides the weariness inspired by its heavy, ill-restored shell, and the miserable paintings with which Flandrinloaded it, the clergy there were specially, almost alarmingly, ugly, andthe choir was truly infamous. They were like a set of bad cooks, boyswho spat vinegar, and elderly choir-men, who cooked in the furnace oftheir throats a sort of vocal broth, a thin gruel of sound. 

Nor did he think of taking refuge in St. Thomas Aquinas, where hedreaded the barking and the choruses; there was indeed St. Clotilde, where the psalmody, at least, is upright, and has not, like that of St. Thomas, lost all shame. He went there, but again encountered dance musicand profane tunes, a worldly orgie. 

At last he went to bed in a rage, saying to himself, "In Paris, at anyrate, a singular baptism of music is reserved for the New-Born. "

Next day, when he woke, he felt he had no courage to face the churches;the sacrileges of last night would, he thought, continue; and as theweather was almost fine, he went out, wandered in the Luxembourg, gainedthe square of the Observatoire, and the Boulevard de Port Royal, andmechanically made his way along the interminable Rue de la Santé. 

He knew that street of old, and had taken melancholy walks in it, attracted by its poor houses, like those of a provincial town; then itwas fit for a dreamer, for it was bounded on the right by the Prison dela Santé and Sainte Anne's madhouse, and on the left by convents. Lightand air circulated in the street, but, behind it, all was black; it wasa kind of prison corridor, with cells on either side, where some werecondemned to temporary sentences, and others, of their own free will, suffered lasting sorrows. 

"I can imagine, " thought Durtal, "how it would have been painted by anEarly Flemish master; the long street paved by patient pencils, thestories open from top to bottom, and the cupboards the same; and on oneside massive cells with iron bedsteads, a stoneware jug; littlepeepholes in the doors secured by strong bolts, inside, scoundrels andthieves, gnashing their teeth, turning round and round, their hair onend, howling like caged animals; on the other side little rooms, furnished with a pallet-bed, a stoneware jug, a crucifix, these alsoclosed by doors iron-banded, and within nuns or monks, kneeling on theflags, their faces clean cut against the light of a halo, their eyeslifted to heaven, their hands joined, raised from the ground in ecstasy, a pot of lilies at their side. "

Then at the back of the canvas, between these two rows of houses, risesa great avenue, at the end of which in a dappled sky sits God the Fatherwith Christ on His right, choirs of Seraphim playing on guitar and viol;God the Father immovable under his lofty tiara, His breast covered byHis long beard, holds scales which balance exactly, the holy captivesexpiating precisely by their penances and prayers the blasphemies of therascals and the insane. 

"It must be admitted, " thought Durtal, "that this street is verypeculiar, that there is probably none like it in Paris, for it unites inits course virtues and vices, which in other quarters, in spite of theefforts of the Church, trend apart as far as possible from each other. "

Thus thinking he had come as far as St. Anne's, where the street growslighter and the houses are lower, with only one or two stories, then, gradually, there is greater space between them, and they are onlyjoined to each other by blank ends of walls. 

"At any rate, " thought Durtal, "if this street has no distinction, it isvery private; here at least one need not admire the impertinentdecoration of those modern shops which expose in their windows asprecious commodities, chosen piles of firewood, and in glass sweetmeatjars, coal drops and coke lollipops. "

And here is an odd lane, and he looked at an alley which led down asharp decline into a main street, where was to be seen the tricolor flagin zinc on a washhouse; he read the name: Rue de l'Ebre. 

He entered it, it was but a few yards long; the whole of one side wasoccupied by a wall, behind which were half seen some stunted buildings, surmounted by a bell. An entrance-gate with a square wicket was placedin the wall, which was raised higher as it sloped downwards, and at theend was pierced by round windows, and rose into a little building, surmounted by a clock-tower so low that its point did not even reach theheight of the two-storied house opposite. 

On the other side three hovels sloped down, closely packed together;zinc pipes ran everywhere, growing like vines, ramifying like the stalksof a hollow vine along the walls, windows gaped on rusty leaden hinges. Dim courts of wretched hovels could be seen; in one was a shed wheresome cows were reposing; in two others were coach-houses forwheel-chairs, and a rack behind the bars of which appeared the capsulednecks of bottles. 

"But this must be a church, " thought Durtal, looking at the little clocktower, and the three or four round bays, which seemed cut out in emerypaper to look like the black rough mortar of the wall; "where is theentrance?"

He found it on turning out of the alley into the Rue de la Glacière. Atiny porch gave access to the building. 

He opened the door, and entered a large room, a sort of closed shed, painted yellow, with a flat ceiling, with small iron beams colouredgrey, picked out with blue, and ornamented with gas-jets like a wineshop. At the end was a marble altar, six lighted tapers, and giltornaments, candelabra full of tapers, and under the tabernacle, a verysmall monstrance, which sparkled in the light of the tapers. 

It was almost dark, the panes of the windows having been crudely daubedwith bands of indigo and yellowish green; it was freezing, the stove wasnot alight, and the church, paved like a kitchen floor, had no mattingor carpet. 

Durtal wrapped himself up as best he could and sat down. His eyesgradually grew accustomed to the obscurity of the room, and what he sawwas strange; in front of the choir on rows of chairs were seated humanforms, drowned in floods of white muslin. No one stirred. 

Suddenly there entered by a side door a nun equally wrapped from head tofoot in a large veil. She passed along the altar, stopped in the middle, threw herself on the ground, kissed the floor, and by a sudden effort, without helping herself by her arms, stood upright, advanced silentlyinto the church, and brushed by Durtal, who saw under the muslin amagnificent robe of creamy white, an ivory cross at her neck, at hergirdle a white cord and beads. 

She went to the entrance-door, and there ascended a little staircaseinto a gallery which commanded the church. 

He asked himself what could be this Order so sumptuously arrayed, inthis miserable chapel, in such a district?

Little by little the room filled, choir-boys in red with capes trimmedwith rabbit's skin lighted the candelabra, went out, and ushered in apriest, vested in a grand cope, with large flowers, a priest tall andyoung, who sat down, and in a sonorous tone chanted the first antiphonof vespers. 

Suddenly Durtal turned round. In the gallery an harmonium accompaniedthe responses of voices never to be forgotten. It was not a woman'svoice, but one having in it something of a child's voice, sweetened, purified, sharpened, and something of a man's, but less harsh, finer andmore sustained, an unsexed voice, filtered through litanies, bolted byprayers, passed through the sieves of adoration and tears. 

The priest, still sitting, chanted the first verse of the unchangingpsalm, "Dixit Dominus Domino meo. "

And Durtal saw in the air, in the gallery, tall white statues, holdingblack books in their hands, chanting slowly with eyes raised to heaven. A lamp cast its light on one of these figures, which for a second leantforward a little, and he saw under the lifted veil a face attentive andsorrowful, and very pale. 

The verses of the vesper psalms were now sung alternately, by the nunsabove and by the congregation below. The chapel was almost full; aschool of girls in white veils filled one side; little girls of themiddle-class, poorly dressed brats who played with their dolls occupiedthe other. There were a few poor women in _sabots_, and no men. 

The atmosphere became extraordinary. The warmth of the souls thawed theice of the room; here were not the vespers of the rich, such as werecelebrated on Sundays at St. Sulpice, but the vespers of the poor, domestic vespers, in the plain chant of the country side, followed bythe faithful with mighty fervour in silent and singular devotion. 

Durtal could fancy himself transported beyond the city, to the depths ofsome village cloister; he felt himself softened, his soul rocked by themonotonous amplitude of these chants, only recognizing the end of thepsalms by the return of the doxology, the "Gloria Patri et Filio, " whichseparated them from each other. 

He had a real impulse, a dim need of praying to the Unknowable, penetrated to the very marrow by this environment of aspiration, itseemed to him that he thawed a little, and took a far-off part in theunited tenderness of these bright spirits. He sought for a prayer, andrecalled what St. Paphnutius taught Thais, when he cried, "Thou art notworthy to name the name of God, thou wilt pray only thus: 'Qui plasmastime miserere mei;' Thou who hast formed me have mercy on me. " Hestammered out the humble phrase, prayed not out of love or ofcontrition, but out of disgust with himself, unable to let himself go, regretting that he could not love. Then he thought of saying the Lord'sPrayer, but stopped at the notion that this is the hardest of allprayers to pronounce, when the phrases are weighed in the balance. Forin it we declare to God that we forgive our neighbours' trespasses. Nowhow many who use these words forgive others? How many Catholics do notlie when they tell the All-knowing that they hate no one?

He was roused from these reflections by sudden silence; vespers wereover. Then the organ played again, and all the voices of the nunsjoined, those in the choir below and in the gallery above, singing theold carol "Unto us a child is born. "

He listened, moved by the simplicity of the strain, and suddenly, in aminute, brutally, without understanding why, infamous thoughts filledhis mind. 

He resisted in disgust, wished to repulse the assault of these shamefulfeelings, and they were persistent. He seemed to see before him a womanwhose perverse ways had long maddened him. 

All at once this hallucination ceased; his eye was mechanicallyattracted towards the priest, who was looking at him, while speaking ina low voice to a beadle. 

He lost his head, imagining that the priest guessed his thoughts and wasturning him out, but this notion was so foolish, that he shrugged hisshoulders, and more sensibly thought that men were not admitted to thisconvent of women, and that the abbé who had seen him was sending thebeadle to beg him to leave. 

The beadle came straight to him; Durtal was ready to take his hat, whenin persuasive and gentle tones that functionary said that the processionwas about to begin, that it was the custom for the gentlemen to followthe Blessed Sacrament, and that although he was the only man there, theabbé thought he would not refuse to follow the procession about tostart. 

Overwhelmed by this request, Durtal made a vague gesture, in which thebeadle seemed to see assent. 

"No, " he thought as soon as he was left alone; "I will not meddle withthe ceremony; first I know nothing about it, and I should spoil it all, and again I will not make a fool of myself. " He prepared to slip awayquietly, but he had no time to carry out his intention; the usherbrought him a lighted candle and asked him to accompany him. He put thebest face he could on the matter, and while thinking that he wasblushing all over, he followed the beadle to the altar. 

There the beadle stopped him and bid him not to move. The wholecongregation was now standing, the girls' school divided into two files, preceded by a woman carrying a banner. Durtal came in front of the firstrank of nuns. 

Their veils lowered before the profane, even in church, were raisedbefore the Blessed Sacrament, before God. Durtal was able to look atthese sisters for a moment; at first his disillusion was complete. Hehad supposed them pale and grave like the nun he had seen in thegallery, and almost all of them were red, freckled, crossing their poorhands swelled and wounded by chilblains. Their faces were puffy and allseemed at the beginning or end of a cold; they were evidently countrygirls, and the novices, known by their grey robes under the white veil, were still more common looking; they had certainly been accustomed tofarm labour, and yet on seeing them all turned to the altar, the povertyof their faces, the ugliness of their hands blue with cold, their brokennails, injured in the wash, disappeared; their eyes, modest and humbleunder their long lashes, changed their coarse features into pioussimplicity. Lost in prayer, they did not even see his curious looks, anddid not even suspect a man was there examining them. 

Durtal envied the admirable wisdom of these poor girls who aloneunderstood it was mad to wish to live. He thought: "Ignorance leads tothe same result as knowledge. Among the Carmelites are rich and prettywomen who have lived in the world and left it, wholly convinced of thevainness of its joys; and these nuns, who evidently know nothing, havehad an intuition of that vacuity which it has needed years of experiencefor the others to gain. By different ways they have arrived at the samemeeting-place. Then what clearness of thought is revealed by theirentrance into an Order! for if indeed they had not been gathered byChrist, what would have become of these unhappy girls? Married todrunkards and hammered by beatings; or perhaps maids in taverns, ill-treated by their masters, brutalized by the other servants, destinedto the scorn of the streets and the dangers of ill-usage. And withoutknowing anything they have avoided it all, have remained innocent, farfrom these perils, and far from this defilement, under an obediencewhich is not ignoble, disposed by their very way of life to experience, should they be worthy, the most powerful joys which the soul of a humancreature can feel. They remain, perhaps, beasts of burthen, but at anyrate God's beasts of burthen. "

He had got so far in his reflections when the beadle beckoned to him. The priest, who had descended from the altar, held the littlemonstrance; the girls' procession was moving before him. Durtal passedin front of the line of nuns who did not take part in the ceremony, andtorch in hand he followed the beadle, who carried behind the priest anopen white silk parasol. 

Then the harmonium in the gallery filled the church with its drawlingtones, like an enlarged accordion, and the nuns standing beside itintoned the old chant, rhythmical as a march, the "Adeste Fideles, "while below the novices and the faithful repeated after each stanza thesweet chorus of invitation, "Venite adoremus. "

The procession went several times round the chapel, above the headsbowed in the smoke from the censers, which the choir boys swung, turningat each pause to face the priest. 

"Well, after all, I have not come so badly out of it, " said Durtal tohimself, when they had returned to the altar. He thought his part wasfinished, but, this time without asking his permission, the beadle askedhim to kneel at the communion rail in front of the altar. 

He was ill at ease and annoyed, at knowing that the whole school and thewhole convent was behind him, nor was he accustomed to kneel; it seemedas if wedges were thrust into his limbs, as if he were subjected to thetortures of the Middle Ages. Embarrassed by his taper, which wasguttering, and threatened to cover him with spots, he shifted hisposition quietly, trying to make himself more comfortable by slippingthe skirts of his great coat between his knees and the steps; but inmoving he only increased the evil, his flesh was folded back between thebones, and his skin was chafed and burning. He sweated at last with thepain, and feared to distract the fervour of the community by falling;while the ceremony went on for ever, the nuns sang in the gallery, buthe listened no more and deplored the length of the service. 

At last the moment of Benediction approached. 

Then in spite of himself, seeing himself there, so near to God, Durtalforgot his sufferings, and bowed his head, ashamed to be so placed, likea captain at the head of his company, in the first rank of this maidentroop; and when in a great silence, the bell tinkled, and the priestturning, lightly cut the air in the form of a cross, and, with theBlessed Sacrament, blessed the congregation kneeling at his feet, Durtalremained, his body bent, his eyes closed, seeking to hide himself, tomake himself small, and not be seen there in front amid that piouscrowd. 

The psalm "Laudate Dominum, omnes gentes, " rang out when the beadle cameto take his taper. Durtal could hardly resist a cry, when he had tostand up; his benumbed knees cracked, and their joints would hardlywork. 

Yet he regained his place somehow; let the crowd pass, and approachingthe beadle, asked him the name of the convent, and the order to whichthe nuns belonged. 

"They are the Franciscan missionaries of Mary, " answered the man, "butthe chapel is not theirs as you seem to think; it is a chapel of easefor the parish of St. Marcel de la Maison Blanche: it is only joined bya corridor to the house those sisters occupy behind us there in the Ruede l'Ebre. They join in the offices, in fact, just as you and I may do, and they keep a school for the children of the district. "

"It is a touching little chapel, " thought Durtal, when he was alone. "Itis well matched with the neighbourhood it shelters, with the gloomybrook of the tanners, which runs through the yards below the Rue de laGlacière. It gives me the effect of being to Notre Dame de Paris whatits neighbour the Bièvre is to the Seine. It is the streamlet of thechurch, the pious pavement, the miserable suburb of worship. 

"How poor and yet how exquisite are those nuns' voices, which seemnon-sexual and mellow! God knows how I hate the voice of a woman in theholy place, for it still remains unclean. I think woman always bringswith her the lasting miasma of her indispositions and she turns thepsalms sour. Then, all the same, vanity and concupiscence rise from theworldly voice, and its cries of adoration accompanied by the organ areonly cries of carnal desire, its very pleadings in the most sombreliturgical hymns are only addressed to God from the lips outward, for atbottom a woman only mourns the mediocre ideal of earthly pleasure towhich she cannot attain. Thus I thoroughly understand that the Churchhas rejected woman from her offices, and that the musical robe of hersequences may not be contaminated she employs the voices of the boy andthe man. 

"Yet in convents of women, that is changed; it is certain that prayer, communion, abstinence and vows purify the body and the soul, as well asthe vocal odour which proceeds from them. The emanations from them giveto the voices of the nuns, however crude, however ill-trained they maybe, their chaste inflexions, their simple caresses of pure love, theyrecall to it the ingenuous sounds of childhood. 

"In certain orders, they seem even to prune it of the greater part ofits branches, and concentrate the threads of sap which remain in a fewtwigs;" and he thought of a Carmelite convent to which he had gone fromtime to time, remembered their failing, almost expiring voices, wherethe little health that remained to them was concentrated in three notes, voices which had lost the musical colours of life, the tints of openair, keeping only in the cloister those of the costumes they seemed toreflect, white and brown, chaste and sombre tones. 

Ah! those Carmelites, he thought of them now, as he descended the Rue dela Glacière, and he called up the memory of a profession, the thought ofwhich took entire possession of him every time he meditated on convents. He saw again in memory a morning in the little chapel in the Avenue deSaxe, a chapel, Spanish Gothic in style, with narrow windows glazed withpanes so dark that the light which remained in their colours did notpass through them. 

At the end rose the high altar in shade, raised on six steps; on theleft a large iron grating in an arch was covered with a black curtain, and on the same side, but almost at the base of the altar, a little archtraced on the plain wall, like a lancet window, with an aperture in themiddle, a sort of square, a frame, without a panel, empty. 

That morning the chapel, cold and dark, sparkled, lighted by groves ofcandles; and the odour of incense, not adulterated as in other churchesby spices and gums, filled it with a dull smoke; it was crammed withpeople. Crouched in a corner, Durtal had turned round, and like hisneighbours looked at the backs of the thurifers and priests, who weregoing towards the entrance. The door opened suddenly, and he saw, in aburst of daylight, a red vision of the Cardinal Archbishop of Paris, passing up the nave, turning from side to side a horse-like head, infront of it a big spectacled nose, bending his tall form all on oneside, blessing the congregation with a long twisted hand, like a crab'sclaw. 

He and his suite ascended the altar steps, and knelt at a prie-Dieu, then they took off his tippet, and vested him in a silk chasuble with awhite cross embroidered in silver, and the mass began. Shortly beforethe communion, the black veil was gently withdrawn; behind the highgrating, and in a blueish light like that of the moon, Durtal faintlysaw white phantoms gliding and stars twinking in the air, and close tothe grating a woman's form, kneeling motionless on the ground, she tooholding a star at the end of a taper. The woman did not move but thestar shook; then when the moment of communion was at hand, the womanrose, then disappeared, and her head, as if decapitated, filled thesquare of the wicket opened in the arch. 

Then as he leant forward he saw, for a second, a dead face, with closedlids, white, eyeless, like ancient marble statues. And all passed away, as the Cardinal bent above the grating, with the ciborium in his hand. 

All was so rapid that he asked himself if he were not dreaming; the masswas over. Behind the iron grating resounded mournful psalms, slow chantsdrawn out, weeping, always on the same notes, wandering lights and whiteforms passed in the azure fluid of the incense. Monseigneur Richard wassitting, mitre on head, interrogating the postulant who had returned toher place, and was kneeling before him behind the grating. 

He spoke in a low voice, and could not be heard. The whole congregationbent to listen to the novice as she pronounced her vows, but only a longmurmur was heard. Durtal remembered that he had elbowed his way, and gotnear the choir, where, through the crossed bars of the grating, he sawthe woman clad in white, prostrate on her face, in a square of flowers, while the whole convent filed past, bending over her, intoning thepsalms for the dead, and sprinkling her with holy water, like a corpse. 

"It is admirable, " he cried, moved in the street by the memory of thescene, and he thought of what a life was that of these women! To lie onan hair mattress without pillow or sheets, to fast seven months out ofthe twelve, except on Sundays and feasts; always to eat, standing, vegetables and abstinence fare; to have no fire in winter, to chant forhours on ice-cold tiles, to scourge the body, to become so humble as, however tenderly nurtured, to wash up dishes with joy, and attend to themeanest tasks, to pray from morning to midnight even to fainting, topray there till death. They must indeed pity us, and set themselves toexpiate the imbecility of a world which treats them as hysterical fools, for it cannot even understand the joy in suffering of souls like these. 

"We cannot be proud of ourselves, in thinking of the Carmelites, or evenof those humble Franciscan Tertiaries, who are after all more vulgar. Itis true they do not belong to a contemplative order, but all the sametheir rules are very strict, their existence is so hard that they toocan atone by their prayers and good works for the crimes of the citythey protect. "

He grew enthusiastic in thinking of the convents. Ah! to be earthed upamong them, sheltered from the herd, not to know what books appear, whatnewspapers are printed, never to know what goes on outside one's cell, among men--to complete the beneficent silence of this cloistered life, nourishing ourselves with good actions, refreshing ourselves with plainsong, saturating ourselves with the inexhaustible joys of the liturgies. 

Then, who knows? By force of good will, and by ardent prayer, to succeedin coming to Him, in entertaining Him, feeling Him near us, perhapsalmost satisfied with His creature. And he called up before him the joysof those abbeys in which Jesus abode. He remembered that astonishingconvent of Unterlinden, near Colmar, where in the thirteenth century notonly one or two nuns, but the whole convent, rose distractedly beforeChrist with cries of joy, nuns were lifted above the ground, othersheard the songs of seraphim, and their emaciated bodies secreted balm;others became transparent or were crowned with stars; all thesephenomena of the contemplative life were visible in that cloister, ahigh school of Mysticism. 

Thus wrapped in thought, he found himself at his own door, withoutremembering the road he had taken, and as soon as he was in his room, his whole soul dilated and burst forth. He desired to thank, to callfor mercy, to appeal to someone, he knew not whom, to complain of heknew not what. All at once the need of pouring himself forth, of goingout of himself, took shape, and he fell on his knees saying to Our Lady, "Have pity on me, and hear me; I would rather anything than continuethis shaken existence, these idle stages without an aim. Pardon me, HolyVirgin, unclean as I am, for I have no courage for the battle. Ah, wouldest thou grant my prayer! I know well that I am over bold in daringto ask, since I am not even resolved to turn out my soul, to empty itlike a bucket of filth, to strike it on the bottom, that the lees maytrickle out and the scales fall off, but ... But ... Thou knowest I amso weak, so little sure of myself, that in truth I shrink. 

"Oh, all the same I would desire to flee away, a thousand miles fromParis, I know not where, into a cloister. My God! yet this is verymadness that I speak, for I could not stay two days in a convent; norindeed would they take me in. "

Then he thought, --

"Though this once I am less dry, less unclean than is my wont, I canfind nothing to say to Our Lady but insanities and follies, when itwould be so simple to ask her pardon, to beg her to have pity on mydesolate life, to aid me to resist the demands of my vices, not to payas I do the royalties on my nerves, the tax on my senses. 

"All the same, " he said, rising, "enough of this, I will at least dowhat little I can; without more delay I will go to the abbé to-morrow. Iwill explain the struggle of my soul, and we will see what happensafterwards. "

CHAPTER V. 

He was really comforted when the servant said that Monsieur l'Abbé wasat home. He entered a little drawing-room, and waited till the priest, whom he heard speaking to someone in the next chamber, was alone. 

He looked at the little room, and marked that nothing was changed sincehis last visit. It was still furnished with a velvet sofa, of which thered, once crimson, had become the faded rose colour of raspberry jam onbread. There were also two tall arm-chairs on either side of thechimney, which was ornamented by an Empire clock, and some china vasesfilled with sand, in which were stuck some dry stalks of reed. In acorner against the wall, under an old wooden crucifix, was a prie-dieu, marked by the knees, an oval table in the centre, some sacred engravingson the walls; and that was all. 

"It is like an hotel, or an old maid's lodging, " thought Durtal. Thecommonness of the furniture, the curtains in faded damask, the panelshung with a paper covered with bouquets of poppies and field-flowers infalse colours, were like lodgings by the month, but certain details, above all the scrupulous cleanliness of the room, the worked cushions onthe sofa, the grass mats under the chairs, an hortensia like a paintedcauliflower placed in a flower-pot covered with lace, looked on theother hand like the futile and icy room of a devout woman. 

"Nothing was wanting but a cage of canaries, photographs in plushframes, shell-work and crochet mats. "

Durtal had got so far in his reflections when the abbé came in withextended hand, gently finding fault with his long absence. 

Durtal made what excuses he could, unusual occupations, long weariness. 

"And our Blessed Lidwine, how do you get on with her?"

"Ah, I have not even begun her life; I am not in a state of mind whichallows me to engage in it. "

Durtal's accent of discouragement surprised the priest. 

"Come, what is the matter? Can I be of any use to you?"

"I do not know, Monsieur l'Abbé. I am almost ashamed to talk to youabout such troubles, " and suddenly he burst out, telling his sorrows inany chance words, declaring the unreality of his conversion, hisstruggles with the flesh, his human respect, his neglect of religiouspractices, his aversion from the rites demanded of him, in fact from allyokes. 

The abbé listened without moving, his chin on his hand. 

"You are more than forty, " he said, when Durtal was silent; "you havepassed the age when without any impulse from thought, the awakening ofthe flesh excites temptations, you are now in that period when indecentthoughts first present themselves to the imagination, before the sensesare agitated. We have then to fight less against your sleeping body thanyour mind, which stimulates and vexes it. On the other hand, you havearrears and prizes of affection to put out, you have no wife or childrento receive them, so that your affections being driven back by celibacy, you will end by taking them there where at first they should have beenplaced; you try to appease your soul's hunger in chapels, and as youhesitate, as you have not the courage to come to a decision, to breakonce for all with your vices, you have arrived at this strangecompromise; to reserve your tender feeling for the church and themanifestations of that feeling for women. That, if I do not mistake, isyour correct balance-sheet. But, good heavens, you have not too much tocomplain of, for do you not see that the important thing is to care forwoman only with your bodily senses? When Heaven has given you grace tobe no longer taken captive by thought, all may be arranged with a littleeffort of will. "

"This is an indulgent priest, " thought Durtal. 

"But, " continued the abbé, "you cannot always sit between two stools, the moment will come when you must stick to the one, and push the otheraway. "

And looking at Durtal, who looked down without answering, --

"Do you pray? I do not ask if you say your morning prayers, for not allthose, who end by entering on the divine way, after wandering for yearswhere chance might take them, call on the Lord so soon as they awake. At break of day the soul thinks itself well, thinks itself firmer, andat once takes occasion of this fleeting energy to forget God. It is withthe soul as with the body when it is sick. When night comes oursensations are stronger, pain which was quieted awakes, the fever whichslept blazes up again, filth revives and wounds bleed anew, and then itthinks of the divine Miracle-worker, it thinks of Christ. Do you pray inthe evening?"

"Sometimes--and yet it is very difficult; the afternoon is tolerable, but you say truly when the daylight goes, evils spring up. A wholecavalcade of obscene ideas then pass through my brain; how can any onebe recollected at such moments?"

"If you do not feel able to resist in the street or at home, why do younot take refuge in the churches?"

"But they are closed when one has most need of them; the clergy putJesus to bed at nightfall. "

"I know it, but if most churches are closed, there are a few whichremain partly open very late. Ah, St. Sulpice is among the number, andthere is one which remains open every evening, and where those who visitit are always sure of prayers and Benediction: Notre Dame des Victoires, I think you know it. "

"Yes, Monsieur l'Abbé. It is ugly enough to cause tears, it ispretentious, it is in bad taste, and the singers churn up a margarine ofrancid tones. I do not go there then as I go to St. Severin and St. Sulpice, to admire there the art of the old 'Praisers of God, ' tolisten, even if they are incorrectly given, to the broad, familiarmelodies of plain chant. Notre Dame des Victoires is worthless from theĉsthetic point of view, and yet I go there from time to time, becausealone in Paris it has the irresistible attraction of true piety, italone preserves intact the lost soul of the Time. At whatever hour onegoes there people are praying there, prostrate in absolute silence; itis full as soon as it is open, and full at its closing, there is aconstant coming and going of pilgrims from all parts of Paris, arrivingfrom the depths of the provinces, and it seems that each one, by theprayers that he brings, adds fuel to the immense brazier of Faith whoseflames break out again under the smoky arches like the thousands oftapers which constantly burn, and are renewed from morning till evening, before Our Lady. 

"Well, I who seek the most deserted corners and the darkest places inthe chapels, I who hate mobs, mix almost willingly with those I findthere; because there everyone is isolated, no one is concerned with hisneighbour, you do not see the human bodies which throng you, but youfeel the breath of souls around. However refractory, however damp youmay be, you end by taking fire at this contact, and are astonished tofind yourself all at once less vile; it seems to me that the prayerswhich elsewhere when they leave my lips fall back to the groundexhausted and chilled, spring upwards in that place, are borne on byothers, grow warm and soar and live. 

"At St. Severin I have indeed experienced the sensation of a helpspreading from the pillars and running through the arches, but, as Ithink, the aid is less strong. Perhaps since the Middle Ages that churchmakes use of, but cannot renew the celestial effluvia with which it ischarged; while at Notre Dame the help which springs up from the verypavement is for ever vivified by the uninterrupted presence of an ardentcrowd. In the one it is the impregnate stone, the church itself whichbrings consolation, in the other it is above all things the fervour ofthe crowds which fill it. 

"And then I have the strange impression that the Virgin, attracted andretained by so great faith, only spends a little while in otherchurches, goes there as a visitor, but has made her home, and reallyresides in Notre Dame. "

The abbé smiled. 

"Come, I see that you know and love it; and yet the church is not on ourleft bank, beyond which, you said to me one day, there is no sanctuaryworth having. "

"Yes, and I am surprised at it, especially as it is placed in athoroughly commercial quarter, two paces from the Exchange, whoseignoble shouts can be heard in it. "

"It was itself an Exchange, " said the abbé. 

"In what way?"

"After having been baptized by the monks, and having served as a chapelfor the discalced Augustinians, it was horribly desecrated in theRevolution, and the Exchange was set up within its walls. "

"I was not aware of that detail, " said Durtal. 

"But, " continued the abbé, "it was with it, as with those holy women, who, if we believe their biographers, recovered by a life of prayer thevirginity they had formerly lost. Our Lady washed it from its violation, and though it is comparatively modern, it is at the present daysaturated with emanations, infused by effluences of angels, penetratedwith divine drugs, it is for sick souls what certain thermal springs arefor the body. People keep their season there, make their novenas, andobtain their cure. 

"Now to come back to our point; I tell you you will do wisely, if onyour bad evenings you will attend Benediction in that church. I shall besurprised if you do not come out cleansed and at peace. "

"If he have only that to offer me, it is little enough, " thought Durtal. And after a disappointed silence he rejoined, "But, Monsieur l'Abbé, even were I to visit that sanctuary, and followthe offices in other churches, when temptations assail me, even were Ito confess and draw near the Sacraments, how would that advantage me? Ishould meet as I came out the woman whose very sight inflames my senses, and it would be with me as after my leaving St. Severin all unnerved;the very feeling of tenderness which I had in the chapel would destroyme, and I should fall back into sin. "

"What do you know about it?" and the priest suddenly rose, and took longstrides through the room. 

"You have no right to speak thus, for the virtue of the Sacrament isformal, the man who has communicated is no longer alone. He is armedagainst others and defended against himself, " and crossing his armsbefore Durtal he exclaimed, --

"To lose one's soul for the pleasure of momentary gratification! whatmadness. And since the time of your conversion, does not that disgustyou?"

"Yes, I am disgusted with myself, but only after my swinish desires aresatisfied. If only I could gain true repentance. "

"Rest assured, " said the abbé, who sat down again, "you will find it. "

And, seeing that Durtal shook his head, "Remember what Saint Teresa said: 'One trouble of those who arebeginning is, that they cannot recognize whether they have truerepentance for their faults; but they have it, and the proof is theirsincere resolution to serve God. ' Think of that sentence, for it appliesto you; that repugnance to your sins which wearies you is witness toyour regret, and you have a desire to serve the Lord, since you are infact struggling to go to Him. "

There was a moment of silence. 

"Well, then, Monsieur l'Abbé, what is your advice?"

"I advise you to pray in your own house, in church, everywhere, as muchas you can. I do not prescribe any religious remedy, I simply invite youto profit by some precepts of pious hygiene, afterwards we will see. "

Durtal remained undecided, discontented, like those sick persons whofind fault with doctors, who, to satisfy them, prescribe only colourlessdrugs. 

The priest laughed. 

"Confess, " he said, looking him in the face, "confess that you aresaying to yourself, 'It was not worth while to put myself out, for I amno further advanced, this good fellow, the priest, practises expectantmedicine; instead of cutting short my crises with energetic remedies, hepalters, advises me to go to bed early, not to catch cold--'"

"Oh, Monsieur l'Abbé, " protested Durtal. 

"Yet I do not wish to treat you like a child, or talk to you like awoman; now attend to me!

"The way in which your conversion has worked leaves me in no doubtwhatever. There has been what Mysticism calls the divine touch, only--note this--God has dispensed with human intervention, even withthe interference of a priest, to bring you back into the road you haveleft for more than twenty years. 

"Now we cannot reasonably suppose that the Lord has acted lightly, andthat He will now leave His work unaccomplished. He will carry it throughif you put no obstacle in His way. 

"In fact you are at this moment like a block in His hands; what will Hedo with it? I do not know, but since He has kept to Himself the conductof your soul, let Him act; be patient, He will explain His action; trustin Him, He will help you; be content to protest with the Psalmist: 'Doceme facere voluntatem tuam, quia Deus meus es tu. '

"I tell you again I believe in the preventive virtue, the formal powerof the Sacraments. I quite understand the system of Père Milleriot, whoobliged those persons to communicate whom he thought would afterwardsfall again into sin. For their only penance he obliged them tocommunicate again and again, and he ended by purifying them with theSacred Species, taken in large doses. It is a doctrine at once realisticand exalted. 

"But reassure yourself, " continued the abbé, looking at Durtal, whoseemed wearied, "I do not intend to experiment on you in this way; onthe contrary, my advice is that in the state of ignorance in which weare of God's will, you abstain from the Sacraments. 

"For you should desire them, and it should come from you rather thanfrom Him; be sure that sooner or later you will thirst for Penance, hunger for the Eucharist. Well, when unable to restrain yourself longer, you ask for pardon and entreat to be allowed to approach the Holy Table, we shall see, we will ask Him what way He will choose to take, in orderto save you. "

"But there are not, I presume, several ways of confessing andcommunicating?"

"Certainly not, that is just what I meant to say ... But ... "

And the priest hesitated, at a loss for words. 

"It is quite certain, " he began again, "that art has been the principalmeans which the Saviour has used to make you absorb the Faith. He hastaken you on your weak side--or strong side, if you like that better. Hehas infused into your nature the chief mystical works; he has persuadedand converted you, less by the way of reason than the way of the senses;and indeed those are the special conditions you have to take intoaccount. 

"On the other hand your soul is not humble and simple, you are a sort of'sensitive, ' whom the least imprudence, the least stupidity of aconfessor would at once repel. 

"Therefore that you may not be at the mercy of a troublesome impression, certain precautions must be taken. In the state of weakness andfeebleness in which you are, a disagreeable face, an unlucky word, antipathetic surroundings, a mere nothing would be enough to routyou--is it not so?"

"Alas!" sighed Durtal, "I am obliged to answer that you are right; but, Monsieur l'Abbé, I do not think I shall have to fear such disillusionsif when the moment you predict has come you will allow me to make myconfession to you. "

The priest was silent for a while; then said, "No doubt, since I have met you, I may probably be useful to you, but Ihave an idea that my part will be confined to pointing out the road toyou; I shall be a connecting link, and nothing more, you will end as youhave begun, without help, alone. " The abbé remained in thought, thenshook his head, and went on: "Let us leave the subject, however, for wecannot anticipate the designs of God; to sum up, try to stifle in prayeryour attacks of the flesh, it is a less matter not to be overcome at themoment, than to direct all your efforts not to be so. "

Then the priest added gently to rouse the spirits of Durtal, whom he sawto be depressed, "If you fall do not despair, and throw the handle after the hatchet. Sayto yourself, that, after all Lust is not the most unpardonable offaults, that it is one of two sins for which the human being pays cash, and which are consequently expiated in part at least before death. Sayto yourself that wantonness and avarice refuse all credit and will notwait; and in fact, whoever unlawfully commits a fleshly act is almostalways punished in his lifetime. For some there are bastards to providefor, sickly wives, low connections, broken careers, abominabledeceptions on the part of those they have loved. On whichever side weturn when women are concerned we have to suffer, for she is the mostpowerful instrument of sorrow which God has given to man. 

"It is the same with the passion for gain. Every being who allowshimself to be overcome by that hateful sin, pays for it as a rule beforehis death. Look at the Panama business. Cooks, housekeepers, smallproprietors who till then had lived in peace, seeking no inordinategains, no illicit profit, threw themselves like madmen into thatbusiness. They had one only thought, to gain money; the chastisement oftheir cupidity was, as you know, sudden. "

"Yes, " said Durtal, laughing, "the de Lesseps were the agents ofprovidence, when they stole the savings of fools, who had moreover gotthem probably by thieving. "

"In a word, " said the abbé, "I repeat my last advice: do not be at alldiscouraged if you sink. Do not despise yourself too much; have thecourage to enter a church afterwards; for the devil catches you bycowardice, the false shame, the false humility he suggests, nourish, maintain, solidify your wantonness in some measure. 

"Well! no good-bye; come and see me soon again. "

Durtal found himself in the street a little confused. "It is evident, "he murmured, as he stalked along, "that the Abbé Gévresin is a cleverspiritual watchmaker. He has dexterously taken to pieces the movement ofmy passions, and made the hours of idleness and weariness strike, but, after all, his advice comes only to this: stew in your own juice andwait. 

"Indeed he is right; if I had come to the point I should not have goneto him to chatter, but really to confess. What is strange is that hedoes not at all seem to think he will have to put me through thewash-tub; and to whom does he mean me to go--to the first comer who willwind about me his spool of commonplaces, and stroke me with his bighands without seeing clearly?

"Well, well ... What is the time?" He looked at his watch. "Six o'clock, and I do not care to go home. What shall I do till dinner?"

He was near St. Sulpice. He went in and sat down, to clear his thoughtsa little, taking a place in the Chapel of Our Lady, which at that hourwas almost empty. 

He felt no wish to pray, and rested there, looking at the great arch ofmarble and gold, like a scene in a theatre, where the Virgin, the onlyfigure in the light, advances towards the faithful, as from a decoratedgrotto, on plaster clouds. 

Meanwhile two Little Sisters of the Poor came and knelt not far fromhim, and meditated, their heads between their hands. 

He thought as he looked at them, --

"Those souls are to be envied who can thus be abstracted in prayer. Howdo they manage it? For, in fact, it is not easy, if one thinks of thesorrows of the world, to praise the vaunted mercy of God. It is all veryfine to believe that He exists, to be certain that He is good; in fact, we do not know Him--we are ignorant of Him. He is, and, in fact, He canonly be, immanent, permanent, and inaccessible. He is we know not what, and at most we know what He is not. Try to imagine Him, and the sensesfail, for He is above, about, and in each one of us. He is three and Heis one; He is each and He is all; He is without beginning, and He willbe without end; He is above all and for ever incomprehensible. If we tryto picture Him to ourselves and give Him a human wrappage, we come backto the simple conception of the early times, we represent Him under thefeatures of an ancestor. Some old Italian model, some old FatherTourgéneff, with a long beard, and we cannot but smile, so childish isthe likeness of God the Father. 

"He is, in fact, so absolutely above the imagination and the senses, that He comes only nominally into prayer, and the impulses of humanityascend especially to the Son, Who only can be addressed, because Hebecame man, and is to us somewhat of an elder brother, because, havingwept in human form, we think He will hear us more readily, and be morecompassionate to our sorrows. 

"As to the third Person, He is even more disconcerting than the first. He is especially the unknowable. How can we imagine this God formlessand bodiless, this Substance equal to the two others, who, as it were, breathe Him forth? We think of Him as a brightness, a fluid, a breath;we cannot even lend to Him as to the Father the face of a man, since onthe two occasions that He took to Himself a body, He showed Himselfunder the likenesses of a dove and of tongues of fire, and these twodifferent aspects do not help to a suggestion of the new appearance Hemight assume. 

"Certainly the Trinity is terrible, and makes the brain reel. Ruysbröckhas moreover said admirably, 'Let those who would know and study whatGod is, know that it is forbidden; they will go mad. '

"So, " he continued, looking at the two Little Sisters, who were nowtelling their beads, "these good women are right not to try tounderstand, and to confine themselves to praying with all their heart tothe Mother and the Son. 

"Moreover, in all the lives of the saints which they have read, theyhave made certain that Jesus and Mary always appeared to the elect toconsole and strengthen them. 

"In fact, how stupid I am. To pray to the Son is to pray to the twoothers, for in praying to one among them I pray at the same time to thethree, since the three make but one. And the Substances are, however, special, because if the divine Essence is one and simple, it is so inthe threefold distinction of the Persons; but, again, what is the use offathoming the Impenetrable?

"Yet, " he continued, remembering the interview he had just had with thepriest, "how will all this end? If the abbé be right, I no longerbelong to myself; I am about to enter the unknown, which frightens me. If only the sound of my vices consents to be silent, but I feel thatthey rise furiously within me. Ah, that Florence"--and he thought of awoman to whose vagaries he was riveted--"continues to walk about in mybrain. I see her behind the lowered curtain of my eyes, and when I thinkof her I am a terrible coward. "

He endeavoured once more to put her away, but his will was overcome atthe sight of her. 

He hated, despised, and even cursed her, but the madness of hisillusions excited him; he left her disgusted with her and with himself;he swore he would never see her again, but did not keep his resolve. 

He saw her now in vision extend her hand to him. 

He recoiled, struggling to free himself; but his dream continuedmingling her with the form of one of the sisters whose gentle profile hesaw. 

Suddenly he started, returned to the real world, and saw that he was atSt. Sulpice, in the chapel. "It is disgusting that I should come here tosoil the church with my horrible dreams; I had better go. "

He went out in confusion, thinking, "Perhaps if I visit Florence onceagain, I may perhaps put an end to this haunting sense of her presence, seeing and knowing the reality. "

And he was obliged to answer himself that he was becoming idiotic, forhe knew by experience that past desire grows in proportion as it isnourished. "No, the abbé was right; I have to become and to remainpenitent. But how? Pray? How can I pray, when evil imaginations pursueme even in church? Evil dreams followed me to La Glacière; here theyappear again, and smite me to the ground. How can I defend myself? forindeed it is frightful to be thus alone, to know nothing and have noproof, to feel the prayers which one tears out of oneself fall into thesilence and the void without a gesture to answer, without a word ofencouragement, without a sign. I do not even know if He be there, and ifHe listens. The abbé tells me to wait an indication, an order from onhigh; but, alas! they come to me from below. "

CHAPTER VI. 

Many months passed. Durtal continued his alternation of wanton and piousideas. Without power to resist, he saw himself slipping. "All this isfar from clear, " he cried, one day, in a rage, when, less apathetic thanusual, he forced himself to take stock. "Now, Monsieur l'Abbé, what doesthis mean? Whenever my sensual obsessions are weaker, so also are myreligious impressions. "

"That means, " said the priest, "that your adversary is holding out toyou the most treacherous of his baits. He seeks to persuade you that youwill never attain to anything unless you will give yourself up to themost repugnant excesses. He tries to convince you that satiety anddisgust of these acts alone will bring you back to God; he incites youto commit them that they may, so to speak, bring about your deliverance;he leads you into sin under pretext of delivering you from it. Have alittle energy, despise these sophistries and resist him. "

He went to see the Abbé Gévresin every week. He liked the patientdiscretion of the old priest, who let him talk when he was in aconfidential humour, listened to him carefully, manifested no surpriseat his frequent temptations and his falls. Only the abbé always returnedto his first advice, insisted on regular prayer, and that Durtal shouldeach day, if possible, visit a church. He also now said, "The hour isimportant for the success of these practices. If you wish that thechapels should be favourable to you, get up in time to be present atdaybreak at the first mass, the servants' mass, and also be very oftenin the sanctuaries at nightfall. "

The priest had evidently formed a plan; Durtal did not yet whollyunderstand it, but he was bound to admit that this discipline oftemporizing, this constant call to thought always directed to God, byhis daily visits to the churches, acted upon him at last, and little bylittle softened his soul. One fact proved it: that he who for so long atime had been unable to meditate in the morning, now prayed as soon ashe awoke. Even in the afternoon he found himself on some days seizedwith the need of speaking humbly with God, with an irresistible desireto ask His pardon and implore His help. 

It seemed then that the Lord knocked at his door with gentle touches, wishing so to recall his attention, and draw him to Him; but when, softened and troubled, Durtal would enter into himself to seek God, hewandered vaguely, not knowing what he said, and thinking of other thingswhile speaking to Him. 

He complained of these wanderings and distractions to the priest, whoanswered, --

"You are on the threshold of the probationary life; you cannot yetexperience the sweet and familiar friendship of prayer. Do not saddenyourself because you cannot close behind you the gate of your senses. Watch and wait; pray badly if you can do nothing else, but pray all thesame. 

"Be very sure too that every one has experienced the troubles whichdistress you; above all, believe that we do not walk blindfold, thatMysticism is an absolutely exact science. It can foretell the greaterpart of the phenomena which occur in that soul which the Lord intendsfor a perfect life; it follows also spiritual operations with the sameclearness as physiology observes the different states of the body. Forages and ages it has disclosed the progress of grace and its effects, now impetuous and now slow; it has even pointed out the modifications ofmaterial organs which are transformed when the soul entirely losesitself in God. 

"Saint Denys the Areopagite, Saint Bonaventure, Hugh and Richard ofSaint Victor, Saint Thomas Aquinas, Saint Bernard, Ruysbröck, Angela ofFoligno, the two Eckharts, Tauler, Suso, Denys the Carthusian, SaintHildegarde, Saint Catherine of Genoa, Saint Catherine of Siena, SaintMagdalen of Pazzi, Saint Gertrude, and others have set forth in amasterly way the principles and theories of Mysticism, and it has foundat last an admirable psychologist to sum up its rules and theirexceptions; a Saint who has verified in her own person the supernaturalphases she has described--a woman whose lucidity was more thanhuman--Saint Teresa. You have read her life, and her 'Castles of theSoul'!"

Durtal nodded assent. 

"Then you have your information; you ought to know that before reachingthe shores of Blessedness, before arriving at the fifth dwelling of theinterior castle, at that prayer of union wherein the soul is awakened inregard to God, and completely asleep to all things of earth and toherself, she must pass through lamentable states of dryness, and themost painful strainings. Take heart therefore; say to yourself that thisdryness should be a source of humility, and not a cause of disquietude;do, in fact, as Saint Teresa would have you: carry your cross, and notdrag it after you. "

"That magnificent and terrible Saint frightens me, " sighed Durtal. "Ihave read her works, and, do you know, she gives me the idea of astainless lily, but a metallic lily, forged of wrought iron; you willadmit that those who suffer have scant consolations to expect from her. "

"Yes; in the sense that she does not think of the creature except in theway of Mysticism. She supposes the fields already ploughed, the soulalready freed from its more vehement temptations, and sheltered fromcrises; her starting-point is as yet too high and too distant for you, for, in fact, she is addressing nuns, women of the cloister, beings wholive apart from the world, and who are consequently already advanced onthose ascetic ways wherein God is leading them. 

"But make an effort in the spirit to free yourself from this mud, castaway for a few moments the memory of your imperfections and yourtroubles, and follow her. See then how experienced she is in the domainof the supernatural, how, in spite of her repetitions and tediousness, she explains wisely and clearly the mechanism of the soul unfolding whenGod touches it. In subjects where words fail and phrases crumble away, she succeeds in making herself understood, in showing, making felt, almost making visible, the inconceivable sight of God buried in thesoul, and taking His pleasure there. 

"And she goes still further into the mystery, even to the end; boundswith a final spring to the very gates of heaven, but then she faints onadoration, and being unable to express herself further, she soars, describing circles like a frightened bird, wandering beyond herself, incries of love. "

"Yes, Monsieur l'Abbé, I recognize that Saint Teresa has explored deeperthan any other the unknown regions of the soul; she is in some measureits geographer, has drawn the map of its poles, marked the latitudes ofcontemplation, the interior lands of the human sky. Other Saints haveexplored them before her, but they have not left us so methodical nor soexact a topography. 

"But in spite of this I prefer those mystical writers who have lessself-analysis, and discuss less, who always do throughout their workswhat Saint Teresa did at the end of hers--that is, who are all on firefrom the first page to the last, and are consumed and lost at the feetof Christ. Ruysbröck is among these. The little volume which Hello hastranslated is a very furnace; and, again, to quote a woman, take SaintAngela of Foligno, not so much in the book of her visions which may notbe always effectual, as in the wonderful life which she dictated toBrother Armand, her confessor. She too explains, and much earlier thanSaint Teresa, the principles and effects of Mysticism; but if she isless profound, less clever in defining shades, on the other hand she iswonderfully effusive and tender. She caresses the soul; she is aBacchante of divine love, a Mĉnad of purity. Christ loves her, holdslong conversations with her; the words she has retained surpass allliterature, and are manifestly the most beautiful ever written. This isno longer the rough Christ, the Spanish Christ who begins by tramplingon His creature to make him more supple; He is the merciful Christ ofthe Gospels, the gentle Christ of Saint Francis, and I like the Christof the Franciscans better than the Christ of the Carmelites. "

"What will you say, then, " said the abbé, with a smile, "of St. John ofthe Cross? You compared Saint Teresa just now to a flower in wroughtiron; he too is such, but he is the lily of tortures, the royal flowerwhich the executioners were wont of old time to stamp on the heraldicflesh of convicts. Like red-hot iron, he is at the same time burning andsombre. As you turn over the pages, Saint Teresa now and then bends overand sorrows and compassionates us; he remains impenetrable, buried inhis internal abyss, occupied, above all things, in describing thesufferings of the soul which, after having crucified its desires, passesthrough the 'Night obscure, ' that is to say, through the renunciation ofall which comes from the sensible and the created. 

"He wills that we should extinguish our imagination--so lethargize itthat it can no longer form images--imprison our senses, annihilate ourfaculties. He wills that he who desires to unite himself to God shouldplace himself under an exhausted receiver, and make a vacuum within, sothat, if he choose, the Pilgrim should descend therein, and purifyhimself, tearing out the remains of sins, extirpating the last relics ofvice. 

"Then the sufferings which the soul endures overpass the bounds of thepossible, it lies lost in utter darkness, falls under discouragement andfatigue, believes itself for ever abandoned by Him to whom it cries, whonow hides Himself and answers not again, happy still when in that agony, the pangs of the flesh are not added, and that abominable spirit whichIsaias calls the spirit of confusion, and which is none other than thedisease of scrupulousness pushed to its extreme. 

"Saint John makes you shudder when he cries out that this night of thesoul is bitter and terrible, and that the being who suffers it isplunged alive into hell. But when the old man is purged out, when he isscraped at every seam, raked over every face, light springs out, and Godappears. Then the soul casts itself like a child into His arms, and theincomprehensible fusion takes place. 

"You see Saint John penetrates more deeply than others into the depthsof mystical initiation. He also, like Saint Teresa and Ruysbröck, treatsof the spiritual marriage, of the influx of grace, and its gifts; but hefirst dared to describe minutely the dolorous phases which till then hadbeen but hinted at with trembling. 

"Then if he is an admirable theologian, he is also a rigorous andclear-sighted saint. He has not those weaknesses which are natural to awoman; he does not lose himself in digressions, nor return continuallyon his own steps; he walks straight forward, but you often see him atthe end of the road, blood-stained and terrible, with dry eyes. "

"But, but, " said Durtal, "surely not all souls whom Christ will lead inthe ways of mysticism are tried thus?"

"Yes, almost always, more or less. "

"I will confess that I thought the spiritual life was less arid and lesscomplex. I imagined that by leading a pure life, praying one's best, andcommunicating, one would attain without much trouble, not indeed totaste the infinite joys reserved for the saints, but at last to possessthe Lord, and live, at least, near Him, at rest. 

"And I should be quite content with this middle class joy. The pricepaid in advance for the exaltation described by Saint John disconcertsme. "

The abbé smiled, but made no answer. 

"But do you know that if it be so, " replied Durtal, "we are very farfrom the Catholicism that is taught us? It is so practical, so benign, so gentle, in comparison with Mysticism. "

"It is made for lukewarm souls--that is to say, for almost all the pioussouls which are about us; it lives in a moderate atmosphere, without toogreat suffering or too much joy; it only can be assimilated by themasses, and the priests are right to present it thus, since otherwisethe faithful would cease to understand it, or would take flight inalarm. "

"But if God judge that a moderate religion is amply sufficient--for themasses believe that he demands the most painful efforts on the part ofthose whom he deigns to initiate into the supremely adorable mysteriesof His Person--it is necessary and just that he should mortify thembefore allowing them to taste the essential intoxication of union withHim. "

"In fact, the end of Mysticism is to render visible, sensible, almostpalpable, the God who remains silent and hidden from all. "

"And to throw us into His deep, into the silent abyss of joy! But inorder to speak correctly, we must forget the ordinary use of expressionswhich have been degraded. In order to describe this mysterious love, weare obliged to draw our comparisons from human acts, and to inflict onthe Lord the shame of our words. We have to employ such terms as'union, ' 'marriage, ' 'wedding feast'; but it is impossible to speak ofthe inexpressible, and with the baseness of our language declare theineffable immersion of the soul in God. "

"The fact is, " murmured Durtal ... "but to return to Saint Teresa.... "

"She too, " interrupted the abbé, "has treated of this 'Night obscure'which terrifies you; but she only speaks of it in a few lines. She callsit the soul's agony--a sadness so bitter that she strove in vain todepict it. "

"No doubt, but I prefer her to Saint John of the Cross, for she is notso discouraging as that inflexible saint. Admit that he belongs too muchto the land of those large Christs who bleed in caverns. "

"Of what nationality then was Saint Teresa?"

"Yes, I know she was a Spaniard, but so complex, so strange, that raceseems obliterated in her, less clearly defined. 

"It is clear she was an admirable psychologist, but also how strange isin her the mixture of an ardent mystic and a cool woman of business. For, in fact, she has a double nature; she is a contemplative outsidethe world, and at the same time a statesman, a female Colbert of thecloister. In fact, never was woman so consummate a skilled artisan andso powerful an organizer. When we consider that, in spite of incredibledifficulties, she founded thirty-two nunneries, that she put them allunder obedience to a rule which is a model of wisdom, a rule whichforesees and rectifies the most ignored mistakes of the heart, it isastonishing to hear her treated by strong-minded people as an hystericalmadwoman. "

"One of the distinctive marks of the mystics, " answered the abbé, with asmile, "is just their absolute balance, their entire common sense. "

These conversations cheered Durtal; they planted on him seeds ofreflection which sprang up when he was alone; they encouraged him totrust to the advice of this priest, and follow his counsels. He foundhimself all the better for this conduct, in that his visits to thechurches, his prayers and readings occupied his objectless life, and hewas no longer wearied. 

"I have at least gained peaceable evenings and quiet nights, " he said tohimself. 

He knew the soothing help of a pious evening. 

He visited St. Sulpice at those times when, under the dull gleam of thelamps, the pillars opened out and threw long panels of darkness on theground. The chapels which remained open were in shade, and in the navebefore the high altar a single cluster of lamps, above in the darkness, shone out like a luminous bunch of red roses. 

In the stillness no sounds were heard but the dull thud of a door, thecreaking of a chair, the short paces of a woman, the hurried stride of aman. 

Durtal was almost isolated in the obscure chapel which he had chosen; hekept himself there so far from all, so far from the city whose fullpulse was beating only two paces from him. He knelt down and remainedstill, he prepared to speak, and had nothing to say, felt himselfcarried away by an impulse, but no words came. He ended by falling intoa vague languor, experiencing that indolent ease, that dim sense ofcomfort, which the body feels in a medicated bath. 

He fell a-dreaming of the lot of the women who were round about him hereand there, in chairs. Ah! those poor little black shawls, thosemiserable pleated caps, those wretched tippets, those doleful seedrosaries they fingered in the shade. 

Some in mourning, sobbed still inconsolable; others, overwhelmed, benttheir backs and hung their heads on one side; others prayed, theirshoulders shaking, their head in their hands. 

The task of the day was over; those wearied of their life came to askfor mercy. Everywhere misfortune was kneeling, for the rich, thehealthy, the happy hardly pray; all around in the church were women, widowed or old, without love, women deserted, women whose home was atorture, praying that existence might become more merciful, that thedissoluteness of their husbands might cease, the vices of their sonsamend, the health of those they loved grow stronger. 

A lamentable perfume went up like incense to Our Lady from a very sheafof woes. 

Few men came to this hidden meeting-place of trouble; still fewer youngpeople, for these have not yet suffered enough; there were only a fewold men, and a few sick who dragged themselves along by the backs of thechairs, and a little hunchback, whom Durtal saw coming there everyevening, an outcast who could only be loved by Her who does not even seethe body. 

A burning pity seized on Durtal at the sight of those unhappy ones whocame to beg from Heaven a little of the love refused them by men; andhe who could not pray on his own account ended by joining himself totheir pleadings, and praying for them. 

So indifferent in the afternoon, the churches were truly persuasive, truly sweet, in the evening; they seemed to bestir themselves atnightfall, and to compassionate in their solitude the sufferings ofthose sick creatures whose complaints they heard. 

And their first mass in the morning, the mass of working women andservant maids was no less touching; there were there no bigots norcurious persons, but poor women who came to seek in communion strengthto live their hours of onerous tasks and servile needs. They knew asthey left the church that they were the living custodians of a God, ofHim who was ever while on earth the Poor Man, who took pleasure only insouls who had scarce where to lay their head; they knew themselves Hischosen, and did not doubt that when He entrusted to them under the formof bread the memorial of His suffering, He demanded of them in exchangethat they should live in sorrow and humility. And what harm then coulddo to them the cares of a day spent in the salutary shame of baseoccupations?

"I now understand, " thought Durtal, "why the abbé made such a point ofmy seeing the churches early or late; those are, in fact, the only timesin which the soul expands. "

But he was too idle to be often present at early mass; he was content totake his relaxation after dinner in the chapels. He came out with afeeling of peace, even if he had prayed badly or not prayed at all. Onother evenings, on the contrary, he felt tired of solitude, tired ofsilence, tired of darkness, and then he abandoned St. Sulpice and wentto Notre Dame des Victoires. 

In this well-lighted sanctuary there was no longer that depression, thatdespair of poor wretches who dragged themselves to the nearest churchand sat down in the shade. The pilgrims to Notre Dame des Victoiresbrought a surer confidence, and that faith softened their sorrows, whosebitterness was dissipated in the explosions of hope, the stammeringadoration, which spouted up all around. There were two currents in thatrefuge, that of people who asked for favours, and that of those who, having gained them, were profuse in thankfulness and in acts ofgratitude. Therefore, that church had its especial physiognomy, morejoyous than sad, less melancholy, more ardent under all circumstancesthan that of other churches. 

It had, moreover, the peculiarity of being much frequented by men, butless by hypocrites, who will not look you in the face, or with upturnedeyes, than by men of all classes whose features were not degraded byfalse piety. There alone were to be seen clear expressions and cleanfaces; there, above all, was not that horrible grimace of the workingman of the Catholic clubs--that hideous creature in a blouse, whosebreath belies the ill-defined unction of his features. 

In that church, covered with _ex votos_, plastered even above the archeswith inscriptions on marble celebrating the joy for prayers granted andbenefits received, before that altar of Our Lady where hundreds oftapers pierced the air blue with incense with the gilded blades of theirlances, there were public prayers every evening at eight. A priest inthe pulpit said the rosary, sometimes the Litany of Our Lady was sung toa singular air, a sort of musical cento, but it was impossible to saywhence it was constructed, very rhythmical, and continually changing itstone, now fast, now slow, bringing with it, for a moment, a vaguerecollection of seventeenth-century airs, then turning sharply at atangent, to a barrel-organ tune, a modern, almost vulgar, melody. 

Yet, after all, there was something taking in this singular confusion ofsounds after the "Kyrie eleison" and the opening invocations. The Virgincame upon the scene to a dance measure like a ballet girl; but whencertain of her attributes were paraded, and certain of her symbolicalnames declared, the music became singularly respectful; it became lower, halting and solemn, thrice repeating, on the same motive, some of herattributes, the "Refugium Peccatorum" among others; then it went onagain, and began her graces again with a skip. 

When by chance there was no sermon, the Benediction took placeimmediately afterwards. 

Then with raspings of the choir, a bass with a cold, and two boys whosnivelled began their liturgical chants: "Inviolata, " that languishingand plaintive Sequence, with its clear and drawling tune so weak, sofrail, that it would seem as if it should only be sung by voices in ahospital; then the "Parce Domine, " that antiphon so suppliant and sosad; lastly, that scrap, detached from the "Panga Lingua, " the "Tantumergo, " humble and thoughtful, attentive and slow. 

When the organ sounded out the first chords, and that plain chant melodybegan, the choir had only to cross their arms and hold their tongues. Astapers which are lighted by threads of fulminate attached one to theother, the faithful caught fire, and, accompanied by the organs, struckup for themselves the humble and glorious strains. They were thenkneeling on the chairs, prostrate on the pavement, and when, after theexchange of antiphons and responses, after the "oremus, " the priestascended to the altar, his shoulders and hands enfolded in the whitesilk scarf, to take the monstrance, then, at the shrill and hurriedsounds of the bells, a wind passed which at once bent every head likethe mowing of grass. 

In these groups of souls on fire there was a fulness of devotion, acomplete and absolute silence, till the bells again rang out, andinvited human life which had been interrupted to wrap itself in a greatsign of the Cross and resume its course. 

The "Laudate" was not ended when Durtal left the church, before thecrowd began to move. 

"Verily, " he said, as he entered his lodgings, "the fervour of thatcongregation, who do not come as in other churches from the districts, but are pilgrims from everywhere and one knows not where, is out of tunewith the blackguardism of this foolish age. "

Then at Notre Dame at least one hears curious singing, and he bethoughthim of those strange litanies which he had heard nowhere else, and yethe had experienced all kinds, in churches. At St. Sulpice, for example, it was recited to two tunes. When the choir sang it was set to a plainchant melody, bellowed by the gong of a bass to which the sharp fife ofthe boys made answer; but during Rosary month, on every day exceptThursday the task of singing it was entrusted to young ladies; then inthe evening round a wheezy old harmonium, a troup of young and oldgeese, made Our Lady run round on her litanies as on hobby horses to themusic of a fair. 

In other churches, at St. Thomas Aquinas, for example, where they werealso dropped out by women, the litanies were sprinkled with powder andperfumed by bergamot and ambergris. They were, in fact, adapted to aminuet tune, and therefore did not disagree with the operaticarchitecture of the church, where they presented a Virgin walking withmincing steps, pinching her petticoat with two fingers, bending inbeautiful curtseys, and recovering herself with a fine bow. This hasevidently nothing to do with church music, but it was none the lessdisagreeable to hear. It would have made the whole performance completeif the harpsichord had been substituted for the organ. 

Far more interesting than this lay quavering was the plain chant, givenmore or less badly, as it was moreover given, but yet given, when therewas no special ceremony at Notre Dame. 

It was not arranged there as at St. Sulpice and the other churches wherethe "Tantum ergo" is almost always dressed up in foolish flourishes, tunes for military ceremonials or public dinners. 

The Church has not allowed the actual text of Saint Thomas Aquinas to bealtered, but she has let any and every choirmaster suppress the plainchant in which it has been wrapped from its birth, which has penetratedto its marrow, has clung to each of its phrases, and become with it onebody and one soul. 

It was monstrous, and it must really be that these curés have lost, notthe sense of art, for that they never had, but the most elementary senseof the liturgy, to accept such heresies, and tolerate such outrages intheir churches. 

These thoughts enraged Durtal, but he returned little by little to NotreDame des Victoires and grew calmer. It was well he should examine itunder all aspects, but it remained none the less mysterious nor the lessunique in Paris. 

At La Salette, at Lourdes, there have been apparitions. "Whether thesehave been authentic or controverted matters little, " he thought. "Foreven supposing Our Lady were not there at the moment her coming wasannounced, she was attracted there, and dwells there now, retained thereby the tide of prayer and the emanations cast up by the faith ofcrowds. Miracles have happened there; it is therefore not astonishingthat pious crowds flock thither. But here at Notre Dame des Victoireshas been no apparition; no Mélanie, no Bernadette, have seen anddescribed the luminous appearance of a 'beautiful Lady. ' There are nopiscinas, no medical staff, no public cures, no mountain top, no grotto, nothing. One fine day in 1836 the curé of the parish, the Abbé DufricheDes Genettes, declared that while he was celebrating mass Our Ladymanifested to him her desire that the sanctuary should be speciallyconsecrated to her, and that alone was enough. The church, then adesert, has never since been empty, and thousands of _ex votos_ declarethe graces which since that day the Madonna has accorded to thevisitors. "

"Yes, but in fact, " concluded Durtal, "all these suppliants are notspecially extraordinary souls, for indeed the most part of them are likeme, they come in their own interests, for themselves and not for Her. "

And he remembered the answer of the Abbé Gévresin, to whom he hadalready made the observation. 

"You must be singularly far advanced on the road to perfection if you gothere for Her only. "

Suddenly, after so many hours spent in the chapels, there was areaction; the flesh extinguished under the cinders of prayers took fire, and the conflagration, springing up from below, became terrible. 

Florence seemed present, to Durtal's imagination, at his lodgings, inthe churches, in the street, everywhere, and he was constantly on thewatch against her recurrent attractions. 

The weather was mixed up with it all; the heaven broke up, a stormysummer raged, shattering the nerves, enfeebling the will, letting theawakened troop of vices loose in their gloomy moisture. Durtal blenchedbefore the dread of long evenings and the abominable melancholy of daysthat never ended. At eight o'clock in the evening the sun had not set, and at three in the morning it seemed to wake again; the week was onlyone uninterrupted day, and life was never arrested. 

Oppressed by the ignominy of this angry sunshine and these blue skies, disgusted at bathing in Niles of sweat, and feeling Niagaras run fromhis hat, he did not stir from home, and then, in his solitude, foulthoughts assailed him. 

It was an obsession by thought, by vision, in all ways, and the hauntingwas all the more terrible that it was so special, that it never turnedaside, but concentrated itself always on the same point, the face andfigure of Florence. 

Durtal resisted, then in distraction, took to flight, tried to tirehimself out by long walks, and to divert his mind by excursions, but theignoble desire followed him in his course, sat before him in the Café, came between his eyes and the newspaper he strove to read, becoming evermore definite. He ended, after hours of struggle, by giving way andgoing to see this woman; he left her overwhelmed, half dead with disgustand shame, almost in tears. 

Nor did he thus find any solace in his struggle, but the contrary; farfrom escaping it, the hateful charm took more violent and tenaciouspossession of him. Then Durtal thought of and accepted a strangecompromise, to visit another woman he knew, and in her society to breakthis nervous state, to put an end to this possession, this weariness andremorse; and in doing so he strove to persuade himself that in thusacting he would be more pardonable, less sinful. 

The clearest result of this attempt was to bring back the memory ofFlorence, and her vicious charm. 

He continued therefore his intimacy with her, and then he had, during afew days, such a revolt from his slavery, that he extricated himselffrom the sewer, and stood on firm ground. 

He succeeded in recovering and pulling himself together, and he loathedhimself. During this crisis he had somewhat neglected the Abbé Gévresin, to whom he dared not avow his foulness, but since certain indicationswarned him of new attacks, he took fright, and went to see him. 

He explained his crises in veiled words, and he felt so unnerved, sosad, that tears stood in his eyes. 

"Well, are you now certain that you have that repentance which youassure me you have not experienced up to this time?"

"Yes, but what is the good of it, if one is so weak, that in spite ofall efforts one is certain to be overthrown at the first assault?"

"That is another question. Come, I see that at present you are in factin a state of fatigue requiring help. "

"Comfort yourself therefore; go in peace and sin less, the greater partof your temptations will be remitted you; you can, if you choose, bearthe remainder, only take care, if you fall henceforward, you will bewithout excuse, and I do not answer for it, that instead of mending, your condition will not be aggravated. "

And as Durtal, stupefied, stammered out: "You believe--"

"I believe, " said the priest, "in the mystical substitution of which Ispoke to you; you will moreover experience it in yourself; the saintswill enter into the lists to help you; they will take the overplus ofthe assaults which you cannot conquer; without even knowing your name, from their secluded province, nunneries of Carmelites and Poor Clareswill pray for you, on receiving a letter from me. "

And in fact, from that very day the most acute attacks ceased. Did heowe that cessation, that truce, to the intercession of the cloisteredOrders, or to a change in the weather, which then took place, to theless heat of the sun, which gave way to floods of rain? He could nottell, but one thing was certain, his temptations were less frequent, andhe could bear them with impunity. 

This idea of convents in their compassion dragging him out of the mud inwhich he had stuck, and by their charity bringing him to the bank, excited him. He chose to go to the Avenue de Saxe, to pray in the homeof the sisters of those who suffered for him. 

This time there were no lights, no crowds, as on the morning when he hadbeen present at a Procession, no odour of wax or incense, no sweeping byof robes of scarlet and cope of gold, all was deserted and dark. 

He was there alone, in the sombre and dank chapel, smelling likestagnant water, and without saying rosaries mechanically, or repeatingprayers by rote, he fell into a reverie, endeavouring to look somewhatclearly into his life, and take stock of himself. And while he thuspulled himself together, far-off voices came behind the grating, drewnearer and nearer, passed by the black sieve of the veil, and droppedround the altar, whose form rose dimly in the shadow. 

These voices of the Carmelites aided Durtal to probe his despair deeply. 

Seated in a chair, he said to himself: "When any one is as incapable asI am when I speak to Him, it is almost shameful to dare to pray, forindeed, if I think of Him, it is that I may ask for a little happiness;and that is foolish. In the immediate shipwreck of human reason, wishingto explain the terrible enigma of the meaning of life, one only ideacomes to the surface, in the midst of the wreckage of thoughts whichsink, the idea of an expiation felt rather than understood, the ideathat the sole end assigned to life is sorrow. 

"Every one has a sum of physical and moral suffering to pay, and whoeverdoes not settle it here below, defrays it after death; happiness is onlylent, and must be repaid; its very phantoms are like duties paid inadvance on a future succession of sorrows. 

"Who knows in that case whether anĉsthetics which suppress corporal paindo not bring into debt those who use them? Who knows whether chloroformis not a means of revolt, and if the shrinking of the creature fromsuffering is not seditious, a rebellion against the will of Heaven? Ifthis be so, the arrears of torture, the balance of distress, thewarrants of pain avoided must accumulate terrible interest above, andjustify the war cry of Saint Teresa, 'Lord, let me always suffer, ordie;' this explains why, in their trials, the saints rejoice, and praythe Lord not to spare them, for they know that the purifying amount ofills must be paid in order to be free from debt after death. 

"To be just, human nature would be too ignoble without pain, for italone can raise the soul while purifying it, but all that is nothingless than consoling, " he added. "What an accompaniment to these sadthoughts are the wailing voices of these nuns; it is truly frightful. "

He ended by fleeing, and taking refuge, to shake off his depression, inthe neighbouring convent at the bottom of the alley de Saxe, in asuburban lane, full of little cottages with gardens in front, whereserpentine paths of pebbles wound round tufts of pot-herbs. 

This was the convent of the Poor Clares of the Ave Maria, an Orderstill more strict than that of the Carmelites, poorer, less fashionable, more humble. 

This cloister was entered by a little door, partly ajar; you ascended tothe second storey without meeting anyone, and found a little chapel, through whose windows trees were visible, rocking to the chirping ofriotous sparrows. 

This too was a place of burial, but no longer, as though opposite a tombat the bottom of a dark cavern, but rather a cemetery where birds sangin the sun among the branches, you might have thought yourself in thecountry, twenty miles from Paris. 

The decoration of this bright chapel tried, however, to be gloomy; itwas like those wine shops whose walls are made to look like those ofcaves, with false stones painted in the imitation plaster. Only theheight of the nave manifested the childishness of the imposture, anddeclared the vulgarity of the deception. 

At the end was an altar above a smooth waxed floor, and on either sideof it a grating with a black veil. According to the rule of SaintFrancis, all the ornaments, the crucifix, the candlesticks, thetabernacle, were of wood, no object was to be seen in metal, no flower, the only luxury in the chapel consisted of two modern stained windows, one of which represented Saint Francis, the other Saint Clare. 

Durtal thought the sanctuary airy and delightful, but he only stayedthere a few minutes, for there was not here, as at the Carmelites, anabsolute solitude, a sombre peace; here there were always two or threePoor Clares trotting about the chapel, who looked at him while they werearranging the chairs, and seemed surprised at his presence. 

They were annoying to him, and he feared he was the same to them, somuch so that he went away; but this short stay was enough to efface, orat least to lessen the funereal impression of the neighbouring convent. 

Durtal returned home, at once much appeased and much disquieted--muchappeased in regard to his temptations, much disquieted about what heshould do next. 

He felt rising in him, and increasing ever more and more, the desire tohave done with these strifes and fears, but he grew pale when he thoughtof reversing his life, once for all. 

But if he still had hesitation and fear, he had no longer the firmintention of resisting; he now accepted in principle the idea of achange of existence, only he tried to retard the day, and put off thehour; he tried to gain time. 

Then like people who grow angry at having to wait, on other days hewished to put off the inevitable moment no longer, and cried withinhimself that this must end; anything rather than remain as he was. 

Then as this desire did not seem heard, he grew discouraged, would nolonger think of anything, regretted the time past, and deplored that hefelt himself carried along by such a current. 

And when he was rather more cheerful, he tried again to examine himself. "In fact I do not at all know how I stand, " he thought; "this flux andreflux of different wishes alarms me, but how have I come to this point, and what is the matter with me?" What he felt, since he became morelucid, was so intangible, so indefinite, and yet so continuous that hewas obliged to give up understanding it. Indeed every time he tried toexamine his soul, a curtain of mist arose, and hid from him the unseenand silent approach of he knew not what. The only impression which hecarried with him as he rose, was that it was less that he advancedtowards the unknown, but that this unknown invaded him, penetrated him, and little by little took possession of him. 

When he spoke to the abbé of this state, at once cowardly and resigned, imploring and fearful, the priest only smiled. 

"Busy yourself in prayer, and bow down your back, " he said one day. 

"But I am tired of bending my back, and of trampling always on the samespot, " cried Durtal. "I have had enough of feeling myself taken by theshoulders and led I know not where, it is really time that in one way oranother this situation came to an end. "

"Plainly. " And standing up, and looking him in the face, the abbé said, impressively, "This advance towards God which you find so obscure and so slow is, onthe contrary, so luminous and so rapid that it astonishes me, only asyou yourself do not move, you do not take account of the swiftness withwhich you are borne along. 

"Before long you will be ripe, and then without need to shake the treeyou will fall off of yourself. The question we have now to answer isinto what receptacle we must put you, when at last you fall away fromyour life. "

CHAPTER VII. 

"But ... But ... " thought Durtal, "we must at any rate come to anunderstanding; the abbé wearies me with his quiet assumptions, hisreceptacle in which he must place me. He does not, I suppose, think ofmaking me a seminarist or a monk; the seminary, at my age, is devoid ofinterest, and as to the convent, it is attractive from the mysticalpoint of view, and even enticing from the artistic standpoint, but Ihave not the physical aptitudes, still less the spiritualpredispositions to shut myself up for ever in a cloister; but puttingthat aside, what does he mean?

"On the other hand he has insisted on lending me the works of Saint Johnof the Cross, and has made me read them; he has then an aim, for he isnot a man to feel his way as he walks, he knows what he wishes and wherehe is going; does he imagine that I am intended for the perfect life, and does he intend to put me on my guard by this course of readingagainst the disillusions which, according to him, beginners experience?His scent seems to fail him there. I have a very horror of bigotry, andpious polish, but though I admire, I do not feel at all drawn towardsthe phenomena of Mysticism. No, I am interested in seeing them inothers, I like to see it all from my window, but will not go downstairs, I have no pretension to become a saint, all that I desire is to attainthe intermediate state, between goody-goodiness and sanctity. This is afrightfully low ideal, perhaps, but in practice it is the only one I amcapable of attaining, and yet!

"Then these questions have to be faced! If I am mistaken and am obeyingfalse impulses, I am, as I advance, on the verge of madness. How, exceptby a special grace, am I to know whether I am in the right way, orwalking in the dark towards the abyss? Here, for instance, are thoseconversations between God and the soul so common in the mystical life;how can one be sure that this interior voice, these distinct words notheard with bodily ears, but perceived by the soul in a clearer fashionthan if they came by the channels of sense, are true, how be sure thatthey emanate from God, not from our imagination or from the devilhimself?

"I know, indeed, that Saint Teresa treats this matter at length in her'Castles of the Soul, ' and that she points out the signs by which we canrecognize the origin of the words, but her proofs do not seem to mealways as easy to discern as she thinks. 

"'If these expressions come from God, ' she says, 'they are alwaysaccompanied by an effect, and bring with them an authority which nothingcan resist; thus a soul is in affliction, and the Lord simply suggeststhe words "trouble not thyself, " and at once the whirlwind passes, andjoy revives. In the second place, these words leave an indissolublepeace of mind, they engrave themselves on the memory, and often cannotbe effaced. '

"'In the other case, ' she continues, 'if these words proceed fromimagination or from the demon, none of these effects are produced, akind of uneasiness, anguish and doubt torments you, moreover theexpressions evaporate in part, and fatigue the soul which endeavours invain to recall them in their entirety. '

"In spite of these tokens, we are, in fact, standing on shifting groundin which we may sink at every step, but in his turn Saint John of theCross intervenes, and tells you not to move. What then is to be done?

"'No one, ' he says, 'ought to aspire to these supernaturalcommunications and rest there, for two motives; first, humility, theperfect abnegation of refusing to believe in them; the second, that inacting thus, we deliver ourselves from the labour necessary to assureourselves whether these vocal visions are true or false, and so we aredispensed from an examination which has no other profit for the soulthan loss of time and anxiety. '

"Good--but if these words are really pronounced by God, we rebel againstHis will if we remain deaf to them. And then, as Saint Teresa declares, it is not in our power not to listen to them, and the soul can onlythink of what it hears when Jesus speaks to it. Moreover, all thediscussions on this subject are uncertain, for one does not enter ofone's own will into the strait way, as the Church calls it, we are led, and even thrown into it often against the will, and resistance isimpossible, phenomena occur, and nothing in the world has power to checkthem; witness Saint Teresa, who, resist as she would by humility, fellinto ecstasy under the divine breath, and was raised from the ground. 

"No, these superhuman conditions alarm me, and I do not hold to knowingthem by experience. As to Saint John of the Cross, the abbé is not wrongin calling him unique, but though he sounds the lowest strata of thesoul, and reaches where human auger has never penetrated, he wearies meall the same in my admiration, for his work is full of nightmares whichrepel me; I am not certain that his hell is correct, and some of hisassertions do not convince me. What he calls the 'night obscure' isincomprehensible; 'The sufferings of that darkness surpass what ispossible, ' he cries on each page. Here I lose foothold. I can imagine, though I have not experienced them, the moral and terrible pangs, of thedeaths of friends and relations, love betrayed, hopes which failed, spiritual sorrows of all kinds, but such a martyrdom as he proclaims assuperior to all others, is beyond me, for it is outside our humaninterests, beyond our affections; he moves in an inaccessible sphere, inan unknown world very far off. 

"I am certainly afraid that this terrible saint, a true man of thesouth, abuses metaphor, and is full of Spanish affectation. 

"Moreover I am astonished at the abbé on another point. He, who is sogentle, shows a certain leaning to the dry bread of Mysticism; theeffusions of Ruysbröck, of Saint Angela, of Saint Catherine of Genoa, touch him less than the arguments of saints who are hard reasoners; yetby the side of these he has advised me to read Marie d'Agreda, whom heought not to fancy, for she has none of those qualities which areadmired in the works of Saint Teresa and Saint John of the Cross. 

"Ah! he may flatter himself that he has inflicted on me a completedisillusion, by lending me her 'Cité Mystique. '

"From the renown of this Spanish woman, I expected the breath ofprophecy, wide outlooks, extraordinary visions. Not at all; her book issimply strange and pompous, wearisome and cold. Then the phraseology ofher book is intolerable. All the expressions which swarm in thoseponderous volumes, 'my divine princess, ' 'my great queen, ' when sheaddresses Our Lady, who in her turn speaks to her as 'my dearest, ' justas Christ calls her 'my spouse, ' 'my well-beloved, ' and speaks of hercontinually as 'the object of my pleasure and delight, ' the way in whichshe speaks of the angels as 'the courtiers of the great King, ' set mynerves on edge and weary me. 

"They smell of perriwigs and ruffles, bows and dances like Versailles, asort of court mysticism in which Christ pontificates, attired in thecostume of Louis XIV. 

"Moreover Marie d'Agreda enters into most extravagant details. She tellsus of the milk of Our Lady which cannot grow sour, of female complaintsfrom which she was exempt, she explains the mystery of the conception bythree drops of blood which fell from the heart into the womb of Mary, and which the Holy Ghost used to form the child; lastly, she declaresthat Saint Michael and Saint Gabriel played the part of midwives, andstood living, under human forms, at the lying-in of the Virgin. 

"This is too strong. I know well that the abbé would say that we neednot concern ourselves with these singularities and these errors, butthat the 'Cité Mystique' is to be read in relation to the inner life ofthe Blessed Virgin. Yes, but then the book of M. Ollier, which treats ofthe same subject, seems to me curious and trustworthy in quite adifferent way. "

Was the priest forcing the note, playing a part? Durtal asked himselfthis, when he saw how determined he was not to avoid the same questionsduring a certain time. He tried now and then, in order to see how thematter was, to turn the conversation, but the abbé smiled, and broughtit back to the point he wished. 

When he thought that he had saturated Durtal with mystical works, hespoke of them less, and seemed to attach himself mainly to the religiousOrders, and especially to that of Saint Benedict. He very cleverlyinduced Durtal to become interested in this institution, and to ask himabout it, and when once he had entered on this ground, he did not departfrom it. 

It began one day when Durtal was talking with him about plain chant. 

"You have reason to like it, " said the abbé, "for even independently ofthe liturgy and of art, this chant, if I may believe Saint Justin, appeases the desires and concupiscences of the flesh, 'affectiones etconcupiscentias carnis sedat, ' but let me assure you, you only know itby hearsay, there is no longer any true plain chant in the churches, these are like the products of therapeutics, only more or less audaciousadulterations presented to you. 

"None of the chants which are to some extent respected by choirs, the'Tantum ergo, ' for example, are now exact. It is given almost faithfullytill the verse 'Prĉstet fides, ' and then it runs off the rails, takingno account of the shades, which are, however, quite perceptible, thatthe Gregorian melody introduces when the text declares the impotence ofreason and the powerful aid of Faith; these adulterations are still moreapparent, if you listen to the 'Salve Regina' after Compline. This isabridged more than half, is enervated, blanched, half its pauses aretaken away, it is reduced to a mere stump of ignoble music, if you hadeven heard this magnificent chant among the Trappists, you would weepwith disgust at hearing it bawled in the churches at Paris. 

"But besides the textual alteration of the melody as we now have it, theway in which the plain chant is bellowed is everywhere absurd. One ofthe first conditions for rendering it well, is that the voices should gotogether, that they should all chant in the same time syllable forsyllable and note for note, in one word it must be in unison. 

"Now, you can verify it yourself, the Gregorian melody is not thustreated; every voice takes its own part, and is isolated. Next, plainmusic allows no accompaniment, it must be chanted alone, without organ, it bears at most that the instrument should give the intonation andaccompany it very softly, just enough if need be to sustain the pitchtaken by the voices; it is not so that you will hear it given in thechurches. "

"Yes, I know it well, " said Durtal. "When I hear it at St. Sulpice, St. Severin, or Notre Dame des Victoires, I am aware that it issophisticated, but you must admit that it is even then superb. I do notdefend the tricks, the addition of fiorituri, the falseness of themusical pauses, the felonious accompaniment, the concert-room toneinflicted on you at Saint Sulpice, but what can I do? in default of theoriginal I must be content with a more or less worthless copy, and Irepeat, even executed in that fashion the music is so admirable that Iam enchanted by it. "

"But, " said the abbé quietly, "nothing obliges you to listen to thefalse plain chant, when you can hear the true, for saving your presence, there exists, even in Paris, a chapel where it is intact, and givenaccording to the rules of which I have spoken. "

"Indeed, and where is that?"

"At the Benedictine nuns of the Blessed Sacrament in the Rue Monsieur. "

"And can anyone enter the convent and be present at the offices?"

"Anyone. Every day in the week, Vespers are sung at three o'clock, andon Sundays High Mass is said at nine. "

"Ah, had I but known this chapel earlier, " said Durtal, the first timehe came out. 

In fact it combined all the conditions he could wish. Situated in asolitary street, it had the completest privacy. The architect who builtit had introduced no innovations or pretentiousness, had built a Gothicchurch, and introduced no fancies of his own. 

It was cruciform, but one of the arms was scarcely the full length, forwant of room, while the other was prolonged into a hall, separated fromthe choir by an iron grating above which the Blessed Sacrament wasadored by two kneeling angels, whose lilac wings were folded over thinrose-coloured backs. Except these two figures, of which the executionwas truly sinful, the rest was at least veiled by shadow, and was nottoo afflicting to the eyes. The chapel was dim, and always at the timeof the offices, a young sacristan-sister, tall and pale, and ratherbent, entered like a shadow, and each time that she passed before thealtar she fell on one knee and bowed her head profoundly. 

She seemed strange and scarcely human, gliding noiselessly over thepavement, her head bowed, with a band as low as her eyebrows, and sheseemed to fly like a large bat when standing before the tabernacle sheturned her back, moving her large black sleeves as she lighted thetapers. Durtal one day saw her features, sickly but charming, hereyelids dark, her eyes of a tired blue, and he guessed that her body waswasted by prayers, under her black robe drawn together by a leatherngirdle ornamented by a little medal of the Blessed Sacrament of giltmetal, under the trimming, near her heart. 

The grating of the enclosure, on the left of the altar, was large, andwell lighted from behind, so that even when the curtains were drawn itwas possible to see the whole chapter drawn up in file in their oakenstalls surmounted at the end by a higher stall in which the abbess sat. A lighted taper stood in the middle of the hall, and before it a nunprayed day and night, a cord round her neck, to expiate the insultsoffered to Jesus under His Eucharistic form. 

The first time Durtal had visited the chapel, he had gone there onSunday a little before the time of Mass, and he had been thus able to bepresent at the entry of the Benedictine nuns, behind the iron screen. They advanced two and two, stopped in the middle of the grating, turnedto the altar and genuflected, then each bowed to her neighbour, and soto the end of this procession of women in black, only brightened by thewhiteness of the head-band and the collar, and the gilt spot of thelittle monstrance on the breast. The novices came last, to be recognizedby the white veils which covered their heads. 

And when an old priest, assisted by a sacristan, began the mass softlyat the end of the chapter, a small organ gave the tone to the voices. 

Then Durtal might well wonder, for he had never before heard a sole andonly voice made up of perhaps some thirty, of a tone so strange, asuperterrestrial voice, which burnt upon itself, in the air, andintertwined its soft cooings. 

This bore no resemblance to the icy and obstinate lament of theCarmelites, nor was it like the unsexed tone, the child's voice, squeaking, rounded off at the end of the Franciscan nuns, but quiteanother thing. 

At La Glacière in fact those raw voices, though softened and watered byprayers, kept somewhat of the drawling, almost vulgar, inflexion of thepeople from whom they came; they were greatly purified, but remainednone the less human. Here the tenderness of tones was rendered angelic, that voice with no defined origin long bolted through the divine sieve, patiently modelled for the liturgical chant, caught fire as it unfolded, blazed in virginal clusters of white sound, died down, flowered outagain in pale pleadings, distant, seraphic at the end of certain chants. 

Thus interpreted the Mass gave a special accent to the sense of thesequences. 

Standing, behind the grating, the convent answered the priest. 

Durtal had then heard, after a mournful and solemn "Kyrie Eleison, "sharp and almost tragic, the decided cry, so loving and so grave, of the"Gloria in Excelsis, " to the true plain chant; he had listened to theCredo, slow and bare, solemn and pensive, and he was able to affirm thatthese chants were totally different from those which were sungeverywhere in the churches. St. Severin and St. Sulpice now seemed tohim profane; in the place of their gentle warmth, their curls and theirfringes, the angles of their polished melodies, their modern endings, their incoherent accompaniments arranged for the organ, he found himselfin the presence of a chant, thin, sharp and nervous, like the work of anearly master, and saw the ascetic severity of its lines, its sonorouscolouring, the brightness of its metal hammered out with the rude yetcharming art of Gothic jewels, he heard under the woven robe of sound, the beating of a simple heart, the ingenuous love of ages, and henoticed that curious shade in Benedictine music; it ended all cries ofadoration, all tender cooings in a timid murmur, cut short, as thoughshrinking in humility, effacing itself modestly as though asking pardonof God for daring to love Him. 

"Ah, you were very right to send me there, " said Durtal to the abbé whennext he saw him. 

"I had no choice, " answered the priest, smiling, "for the plain chant isrespected only in convents under the Benedictine rule. That grand Orderhas restored it. Dom Pothier has done for it what Dom Guéranger has donefor the liturgy. 

"Moreover, beyond the authenticity of the vocal text, and the manner ofrendering it, there are still two essential conditions for restoring thespecial life of these melodies, and they are hardly found except incloisters, first Faith, and next the understanding the meaning of thewords sung. "

"But, " interrupted Durtal, "I do not suppose that the Benedictine nunsknow Latin. "

"I beg your pardon, among the nuns of Saint Benedict, and even among thecloistered sisters of other Orders there are a certain number who studythe language enough to understand the Breviary and the Psalms. That is aserious advantage which they have over the choirs, composed for the mostpart of artisans without instruction and without piety, only simpleworkers with their voices. 

"Now without wishing to abate your enthusiasm for the musical honesty ofthese nuns, I am bound to say, that in order to understand thismagnificent chant in its height and breadth, you must hear it, notwinnowed by the mouths of virgins, even if unsexed, but as it issues, unsmoothed, untrimmed from the lips of men. Unfortunately, though thereare at Paris, in the Rue Monsieur and the Rue Tournefort, twocommunities of Benedictine nuns, there is not on the other hand a singlemonastery of Benedictine monks. "

"At the Rue Monsieur do they absolutely follow the rule of SaintBenedict?"

"Yes; but over and above the usual vows of poverty, chastity, remainingin the cloister, obedience, they make a further vow of separation andadoration of the Blessed Sacrament, as formulated by Saint Mechtilde. 

"And so they lead the most austere existence of any nuns. They scarcelytaste flesh; they rise at two in the morning to sing Matins and Lauds, night and day, summer and winter, they take turns before the taper ofreparation, and before the altar. It need not be said, " continued theabbé after a pause, "that woman is stronger and braver than man; no maleascetic could live and lead such a life, especially in the enervatingatmosphere of Paris. "

"What perhaps astounds me still more, " said Durtal, "is the kind ofobedience exacted of them. How can a creature endowed with free willannihilate herself to such an extent?"

"Oh, " said the abbé, "the obedience is the same in all the greatOrders, absolute, without reserve; its formula is well summed up bySaint Augustine. Listen to this sentence which I remember to have readin a commentary on his rule:

"'We must enter into the feelings of a beast of burthen, and allowourselves to be led like a horse or a mule, which have no understanding;or rather, that obedience may be still more perfect, since these animalskick against the spur, we must be in the hands of a superior like ablock, or the stock of a tree, which has neither life, nor movement, noraction, nor will, nor judgment. ' Is that clear?"

"It is most frightful! I quite admit, " said Durtal, "that in exchangefor such abnegation, the nuns must be powerfully aided from on high, butare there not some moments of falling away, some cases of despair, someinstants in which they pine for a natural life in the open air, in whichthey lament that death in life which they have made for themselves; arethere not days in which their senses wake and cry aloud?"

"No doubt; in the cloistered life the age of twenty-nine is terrible topass, then a passionate crisis arises; if a woman doubles that cape, andshe almost always does so, she is safe. 

"But carnal emotions are not, to speak correctly, the most troublesomeassault they have to undergo. The real punishment they endure in thosehours of sorrow is the ardent, wild regret for that maternity of whichthey are ignorant; the desolate womb of woman revolts, and full of Godthough she be, her heart is breaking. The child Jesus whom they haveloved so well then appears so far off and so inaccessible, and His verysight would hardly satisfy them, for they have dreamed of holding Him intheir arms, of swathing and rocking Him, of giving Him suck, in oneword, of being mothers. 

"Other nuns undergo no precise attack, no assault to which a name can begiven, but without any definite reason they languish and die suddenly, like a taper, blown out. The torpor of the cloister kills them. "

"But indeed, Monsieur l'abbé, these details are far from encouraging. "

The priest shrugged his shoulders. "It is the poor reverse of a splendidstuff, " he said, "wonderful recompenses are granted, even in thisworld, to souls in convents. "

"Nor do I suppose that if a nun fall, stricken in the flesh, she isabandoned. What does the Mother abbess in such a case?"

"She acts according to the bodily temperament and state of the soul ofthe sick person. Note that she has been able to follow her during theyears of her probation, that she has necessarily gained an influenceover her; at such times therefore she will watch her daughter veryclosely, endeavour to turn the course of her ideas, breaking her by hardwork, and by occupying her mind; she must not leave her alone, mustdiminish her prayers, if need be, restrict her hours of office, lessenher fasts, give her, if the case demands it, better food. In othercases, on the contrary, she will have recourse to more frequentcommunions, lessen her food or cause her to be blooded, mix coolingmeats with her diet, and above all things she and all the community mustpray for her. 

"An old Benedictine abbess, whom I knew at Saint-Omer, an incomparableguide of souls, limited before all things the length of confessions. Themoment she saw the least symptoms arise she gave two minutes, watch inhand, to the penitent, and when the time was up she sent her back fromthe confessional, to mix with her companions. "

"Why so?"

"Because in convents, even for souls which are well, confession is amost dangerous relaxation, it is as it were too long and too warm abath. In it nuns go to excess, open their hearts uselessly, dwell upontheir troubles, accentuate them, and revel in them; they come out moreweakened and more ill than before. Two minutes ought indeed to be enoughfor a nun in which to tell her little sins. 

"Yet ... Yet ... I must admit it, the confessor is a danger for aconvent, not that I suspect his honour, that is not at all what I mean, but as he is generally chosen from among the bishop's favourites, thereare many chances that he may be a man who knows nothing, and quiteignorant of how to deal with such souls, ends by unsettling them whilehe consoles them. Again, if demoniac attacks, so common in nunneries, occur, the poor man can only gape, gives all sorts of confused counsel, and hinders the energy of the abbess, who in such matters knows farbetter than he. "

"And, " said Durtal, who chose his words carefully, "tell me, I supposethat tales like those which Diderot gives in his foolish volume 'LaReligieuse' are incorrect?"

"Unless a community is rotted by a superior given over to Satanism, which, thank God, is rare, the filthy stories told by that writer arefalse, and there is moreover a good reason why it should be so, forthere is a sin which is the very antidote of the other, the sin ofzeal. "

"What?"

"Yes: the sin of zeal which causes the denunciation of our neighbour, gives scope to jealousy, creates spying to satisfy hate, that is thereal sin of the cloister. Well, I assure you that if two sisters becamequite shameless they would be denounced at once. "

"But I thought, Monsieur l'Abbé, that tale-bearing was allowed by therules of most orders?"

"It is, but perhaps there is a temptation to carry it somewhat toexcess, especially in convents of women; for you can imagine that ifnunneries contain pure mystics, real saints, they have in them also somenuns less advanced in the way of perfection, and who even still retainsome faults.... "

"Come, since we are in the chapter of minute details, dare I ask ifcleanliness is not just a little neglected by these good women?"

"I cannot say; all that I know is, that in the Benedictine abbeys I haveknown, each nun was free to act as seemed good to her; in certainAugustinian constitutions, the case was provided for in contraryfashion, it was forbidden to wash the body, except once a month. On theother hand, amongst the Carmelites cleanliness is exacted. Saint Teresahated dirt, and loved white linen, her daughters have even, I think, aright to have a flask of Eau de Cologne in their cells. You see thisdepends on the order, and probably also, when the rule does notexpressly mention it, on the ideas which the superior may have on thesubject. I will add that this question must not be looked at only fromthe worldly point of view, for corporal dirt is for certain souls anadditional suffering and mortification which they impose on themselves, as Benedict Labre. "

"He who picked up vermin which left him, and put them piously in hissleeve. I prefer mortifications of another kind. "

"There are harder ones, believe me, and I think they would suit youbetter. Would you like to imitate Suso, who, to subdue his passions, bore on his naked shoulders, for eighteen years, an enormous cross setwith nails, whose points pierced his flesh? More than that, heimprisoned his hands in leather gloves which also bristled with nails, lest he should be tempted to dress his wounds. Saint Rose of Limatreated herself no better, she bound a chain so tightly round her bodythat it penetrated the skin, and hid itself under the bleeding pad offlesh, she wore also a horsehair girdle set with pins, and lay on shardsof glass; but all these trials are nothing in comparison of thoseinflicted on herself by a Capuchin nun, the venerable Mother Pasidée ofSiena. 

"She scourged herself with branches of juniper and holly, then pouredvinegar into her wounds, and sprinkled them with salt, she slept inwinter on the snow, in summer on bunches of nettles, or pebbles, orbrushes, put drops of hot lead in her shoes, knelt upon thistles, thornsand sticks. In January she broke the ice in a cask and plunged into it, and she even half-stifled herself by hanging head downwards in a chimneyin which damp straw was lighted, but that is enough; indeed, " said theabbé laughing, "if you had to choose, you would like best themortifications which Benedict Labre imposed on himself. "

"I would rather have none at all, " answered Durtal. 

There was a moment's pause. 

Durtal's thoughts went back to the Benedictine nuns: "But, " said he, "why do they put in the 'Semaine religieuse, ' after their titleBenedictine Nuns of the Blessed Sacrament, this further name, 'Conventof Saint Louis du Temple?'"

"Because, " said the abbé, "their first convent was founded on the actualruins of the Temple prison, given them by royal warrant, when LouisXVIII. Returned to France. 

"Their foundress and superior was Louise Adélaïde de Bourbon Condé, anunfortunate princess of many wanderings, almost the whole of whose lifewas spent in exile. Expelled from France by the Revolution and theEmpire, hunted in almost every country in Europe, she wandered bychance among convents seeking shelter, now among the nuns of theAnnunciation at Turin and the Capuchins in Piedmont, now among theTrappistines in Switzerland and the Sisters of the Visitation at Vienna, now among the Benedictines of Lithuania and Poland. At last she foundshelter among the Benedictines in Norfolk, till she could again enterFrance. 

"She was a woman singularly trained in monastic science and experiencedin the direction of souls. 

"She desired that in her abbey every sister should offer herself toheaven in reparation for crimes committed; and that she should acceptthe most painful privations to make up for those which might becommitted; she instituted there the perpetual adoration, and introducedthe plain chant, in all its purity, to the exclusion of all others. 

"It is, as you have been able to hear, there preserved intact; it istrue that since her time, her nuns have had lessons from Dom Schmitt, one of the most learned monks in that matter. 

"Then, after the death of the princess, which took place, I think, in1824, it was perceived that her body exhaled the odour of sanctity, andthough she has not been canonized her intercession is invoked by herdaughters in certain cases. Thus, for example, the Benedictine nuns ofthe Rue Monsieur ask her assistance when they lose anything, and theirexperience shows that their prayer is never in vain, since the objectlost is found almost at once. 

"But, " continued the abbé, "since you like the convent so well, gothere, especially when it is lighted up. "

The priest rose and took up a "Semaine religieuse, " which lay upon thetable. 

He turned over the leaves. "See, " he said, and read, "'Sunday 3 o'clock, Vespers chanted; ceremony of clothing, presided over by the VeryReverend Father Dom Etienne, abbot of the Grande Trappe, andBenediction. '"

"That is a ceremony which interests me much. "

"I too shall probably be there. "

"Then we can meet in the chapel?"

"Just so. "

"These ceremonies of clothing have not now the gaiety they had in theeighteenth century in certain Benedictine institutions, amongst othersthe Abbey de Bourbourg in Flanders, " said the abbé smiling, after asilence. 

And since Durtal looked at him questioningly--

"Yes, there was no sadness about it, or at least it had a specialsadness of its own; you shall judge. On the eve of the day that thepostulant was to take the habit, she was presented to the abbess ofBourbourg by the governor of the town. Bread and wine were offered toher, and she tasted them in the church itself. On the morrow sheappeared, magnificently dressed, at a ball which was attended by thewhole community of nuns, where she danced, then she asked her parents'blessing, and was conducted, with violins playing, to the chapel, wherethe abbess took possession of her. She had for the last time seen, atthe ball, the joys of the world, for she was immediately shut up, forthe rest of her days in the cloister. "

"The joy of the Dance of Death, " said Durtal, "monastic customs andcongregations were strange in old days. "

"No doubt, but they are lost in the night of time. I remember, however, that in the fifteenth century there existed under the rule of SaintAugustine an order strange indeed, called the Order of the Daughters ofSaint Magloire, whose convent was in the Rue Saint Denys at Paris. Theconditions of admission were the reverse of those of all other charters. The postulant had to swear on the holy Gospels that she had beenunchaste, and no one believed her oath; she was examined, and if heroath were false, she was declared unworthy to be received. Nor might shehave brought about this condition expressly in order to enter theconvent, she must have well and truly given herself over to sin, beforeshe came to ask the shelter of the cloister. 

"They were in fact a troop of penitent girls, and the rule of theirsubjection was savage. They were whipped, locked up, subjected to themost rigid fasts, made their confessions thrice in the week, rose atmidnight, were under the most unremitting surveillance, were evenattended in their most secret retirement; their mortifications wereincessant and their closure absolute. I need hardly add that thisnunnery is dead. "

"Nor likely to revive, " cried Durtal. "Well then, Monsieur l'Abbé, wemeet on Sunday in the Rue Monsieur?"

And on the assent of the abbé, Durtal went his way, with the strangestideas in his head about the monastic orders. The thing would be, hethought, to found an abbey where one could work at ease in a goodlibrary, there should be several monks, with decent meals, plenty oftobacco, and permission to take a turn on the quays now and then. And helaughed; but then that would not be a monastery! or only a Dominicanmonastery, with monks who dine out, and have, at least, the amusement ofpreaching. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

On Sunday morning, on his way to the Rue Monsieur, Durtal chewed the cudof his reflections on the Monasteries. "It is certain, " he thought, "that in the accumulated filth of ages, they alone have remained clean, are truly in relation with heaven, and serve as interpreters between itand earth. But we must thoroughly understand and specify that we arespeaking only of the cloistered orders, which have remained, as far aspossible, poor.... "

And thinking of the communities of women, he murmured as he hastened hissteps: "Here is a surprising fact, which proves once more, theincomparable genius with which the Church is endowed; she has been ableto bring into common life women who do not assassinate each other, andobey without recalcitrancy the orders of another woman--wonderful!

"Well, here I am"--and Durtal, who knew he was late, hastened into thecourt of the Benedictine nunnery, took the steps of the little churchfour at a time, and pushed the door open. He paused in hesitation on thethreshold, dazzled by the blaze of the lighted chapel. Lamps were liteverywhere, and overhead the altar flamed with a forest of tapersagainst which stood out as on a gold ground, the ruddy face of a bishopall in white. 

Durtal glided among the crowd, elbowing his way till he saw the AbbéGévresin beckoning to him. He joined him, and sat down on the chair thepriest had kept for him, and examined the abbot of Grande Trappe, surrounded by priests in chasubles, and choir boys some in red andothers in blue, followed by a Trappist with shaven crown, surrounded bya fringe of hair, holding a wooden cross, on the reverse of which wascarved the small figure of a monk. 

Clad in a white cowl, with long sleeves and a gold button on his hood, his abbot's cross on his breast, his head covered with an old Frenchmitre of low form, Dom Etienne, with his broad shoulders, his greyishbeard, his ruddy colour, had a look of an old Burgundian, tanned by thesun while working at his vines; he seemed, moreover, a good sort of man, uneasy under his mitre, oppressed by his honours. 

A sharp perfume which burnt the nose as a spice burns the tongue, theperfume of myrrh, floated in the air, the crowds surged; behind thegrating from which the curtain was withdrawn, the nuns standing sang thehymn of Saint Ambrose, "Jesu corona virginum, " while the bells of theabbey rang a peal; in the short aisle leading from the porch to thechoir, a bending line of women on either side, a cross-bearer andtorch-bearers entered, and behind them appeared the novice dressed as abride. 

She was dark, slight, and very short, and came forward shyly withdowncast eyes, between her mother and sister. At first sight Durtalthought her insignificant, scarcely pretty, a mere nobody; and he lookedinstinctively for the other party, put out in his sense of fitness, bythe absence of a man in the marriage procession. 

Striving against her agitation the postulant walked up the nave into thechoir, and knelt on the left before a large taper, her mother and sisteron either side as bridesmaids. 

Dom Etienne genuflected to the altar, mounted the steps, and sat down ina red velvet arm-chair, placed on the highest step. 

Then one of the priests conducted the girl, who knelt alone, before themonk. 

Dom Etienne was motionless as a figure of Buddha; with the same gesture, he lifted one finger, and said gently to the novice, --

"What is it you ask?"

She spoke so low as scarcely to be heard. 

"Father, feeling in myself an ardent desire to sacrifice myself to God, as a victim in union with our Lord Jesus Christ, immolated on ouraltars, and to spend my life in perpetual adoration of His divineSacrament, under the observance of the rule of our glorious Father SaintBenedict, I humbly ask of you the grace of the holy habit. "

"I will give it you willingly if you believe you can conform your lifeto that of a victim devoted to the Holy Sacrament. "

And she answered in a firmer tone, "I trust so, leaning on the infinite goodness of my Saviour JesusChrist. "

"God give you perseverance, my daughter, " said the prelate; he rose, turned to the altar, genuflected, and with uncovered head began thechant "Veni Creator, " taken up by the voices of the nuns behind thelight screen of iron. 

Then he replaced his mitre, and prayed, while the chanted psalms roseunder the arches. The novice, who in the meantime had been reconductedto her place at the prie-Dieu, rose, genuflected to the altar, and thenknelt between her two bridesmaids before the abbot of La Trappe, who hadreseated himself. 

Her two companions lifted the veil of the bride, took off her wreath oforange flowers, unrolled the coils of her hair, while a priest spread anapkin on the knees of the prelate, and the deacon presented a pair oflong scissors on a salver. 

Then before the gesture of this monk, making himself ready, like anexecutioner, to shear the condemned person, whose hour of expiation wasat hand, the terrible beauty of innocence becoming like crime, insubstitution for sins of which she was ignorant, which she could noteven understand, was evident to the public who had come to the chapelout of curiosity, and in consternation at the superhuman denial ofjustice, it trembled when the bishop seized the entire handful of herhair, and drew it towards him over her brow. 

Then there was as it were a flash of steel in a dark shower. 

In the death-like silence of the church the grinding of the scissors washeard in the mass of hair which fell under the blades, and then all wassilent. Dom Etienne opened his hand, and the rain fell on his knees inlong black threads. 

There was a sigh of relief when the priests and bridesmaids led away thebride, looking strange in her train, with her head discrowned and herneck bare. 

The procession returned almost immediately. There was no longer a bridein a white skirt, but a nun in a black robe. 

She bowed before the Trappist, and again knelt between her mother andsister. 

Then, while the abbot prayed the Lord to bless his handmaid, the masterof the ceremonies and the deacon took, from a credence near the altar, abasket, wherein under loose rose leaves were folded a girdle of untannedleather, emblem of the end of that luxury which the Fathers of theChurch placed in the region of the reins, a scapular, symbol of a lifecrucified to the world, a veil, which signifies the solitude of the lifehidden in God, and the prelate explained the sense of these emblems tothe novice, then taking the lighted taper from the candlestick beforeher, he gave it to her, declaring in one phrase the meaning of hisaction: "Accipe, charissima soror, lumen Christi. "

Then Dom Etienne took the sprinkler which a priest handed him with aninclination, and as in the general absolution of the dead, he sprinkledthe girl with holy water in the form of a cross, then he sat down andspoke gently and quietly without using a single gesture. 

He spoke to the postulant alone, praising the august and humble life ofthe cloister. "Look not back, " he said, "have no regrets, for by myvoice Jesus repeats to you the promise once made to the Magdalen, 'yoursis the better part, which shall not be taken away from you. ' Say also toyourself, my daughter, that, henceforward, taken away from the eternaltrifling of labours in vain, you will accomplish a useful work uponearth, you will practise charity in its highest form, you will makeexpiation for others, you will pray for those who never pray, you willaid, so far as your strength permits, to make amends for the hate theworld bears to the Saviour. 

"Suffer and you will be happy; love your spouse, and you will see howtender He is to His elect. Believe me, His love is such that He will noteven wait till you are purified by death to recompense you for yourmiserable mortifications, your poor sufferings. Even before your hour iscome, He will heap His graces upon you, and you will beg Him to let youdie, so greatly will the excess of these joys exceed your strength. "

Little by little the old monk grew warm, and returned to the words ofChrist to the Magdalen, showing how in reference to her Jesus setforward the excellence of the contemplative over the other Orders, andgave brief advice, dwelling on the necessity of humility and poverty, which are, as Saint Clare says, the two great walls of cloistered life. Then he blessed the novice, who kissed his hand, and when she hadreturned to her place, he prayed to the Lord, lifting his eyes toheaven, that He would accept this nun, who offered herself as a victimfor the sins of the world. Then, standing, he intoned the "Te Deum. "

Every one rose, and preceded by the cross and torch bearers, theprocession passed out of the church, and was massed in the court. 

Then Durtal might have believed himself carried back far from Paris, into the heart of the Middle Ages. 

The court, surrounded by buildings, was closed opposite theentrance-gate by a high wall, in the midst of which was a folding-door;on each side six thin pines rocked to and fro, and chanting was heardbehind the wall. 

The postulant, in front, alone, near the closed door, held her torch, with her head bent. The abbot of La Trappe, leaning on his crosier, waited, unmoving, a few paces from her. 

Durtal examined their faces, the girl, so commonplace in her bridalcostume, had become charming, her body was now full of a timid grace, the lines, somewhat too marked under her worldly dress, were softened, under her religious shroud her outline was only a simple sketch, it wasas though the years had rolled back, and as though there was a return tothe forms only prophesied in childhood. 

Durtal drew near to examine her better, he tried to look at her face, but under the chill bandage of her head-dress, she remained mute, and asif absent from life, with her eyes closed, and as though she lived onlyin the smile of her happy lips. 

Seen nearer, the monk who had seemed so stout and ruddy in the chapel, seemed also changed, his frame remained robust, and his complexionbright, but his eyes of a light blue, like chalk water, water withoutreflections or waves, eyes wonderfully pure, changed the commonexpression of his features, and took away from him that look of avine-dresser which he had at a distance. 

"It is clear, " thought Durtal, "that the soul is everything in thesepeople, and their faces are modelled by it. There is a holy clearness intheir eyes, and their lips, in those only apertures through which thesoul comes to look out of the body, and almost shows itself. "

The chants behind the wall suddenly ceased, the girl made a stepforward, and knocked with her closed fingers at the door, and then witha failing voice she sang, --

"Aperite mihi portas justitiae: Ingressa in eas, confitebor Domino. "

The door opened. Another large court, paved with pebbles was seen, bounded at the end by a building, and all the community, in a sort ofsemicircle, with black books in their hands, cried, --

"Haec porta Domini: Justi intrabunt in eam. "

The novice made another step to the sill and answered in her far-awayvoice, --

"Ingrediar in locum tabernaculi admirabilis: usque ad domum Dei. "

And the choir of nuns, unmoving, answered, --

"Haec est domus Domini firmiter aedificata: Bene fundata est suprafirmam petram. "

Durtal hastily looked at those faces which could only be seen for a fewminutes and on the occasion of such a ceremony. It was a row of deadbodies standing in black shrouds. All were bloodless, with white cheeks, lilac eyelids and grey lips, the voices of all were exhausted and fineddown by prayer, and most of them, even the young, were bent. "Their poorbodies are worn with austere fatigue, " thought Durtal. 

But his reflections were cut short, the bride, now kneeling on thethreshold, turned to Dom Etienne and chanted in a low voice, --

"Haec requies mea in saeculum saeculi: Hic habitabo quoniam elegi eam. "

The monk laid aside his mitre and crosier and said, --

"Confirma hoc Deus, quod operatus es in nobis. "

And the postulant murmured, --

"A templo sacro tuo quod est in Jerusalem. "

Then before re-covering his head and resuming his crosier, the prelateprayed God Almighty to pour the dew of His blessing on His handmaid;then directing the girl towards a nun who left the group of sisters andadvanced to the threshold, he said to her, --

"Into your hands, Madame, we commit this new bride of the Lord, sustainher in the holy resolution she has so solemnly taken upon her, in askingto sacrifice herself to God as a victim, and to dedicate her life inhonour of our Lord Jesus Christ, sacrificed on our altars. Lead her inthe way of the divine Commandments, in the practice of the counsels ofthe Holy Gospel, and in the observance of the monastic rule. Prepare herfor the eternal union to which the heavenly Spouse invites her, and fromthis blessed increase of the flock committed to your charge draw a newmotive for maternal care. The peace of the Lord rest upon you. "

This was all: the nuns one by one turned and disappeared behind thewall, while the girl followed them like a poor dog, who with droopinghead accompanies at a distance a new master. 

The folding doors closed. 

Durtal remained stupefied, looking at the outline of the white bishop, the backs of the priests who were mounting the steps to give Benedictionin the church, while behind them came in tears, their faces in theirhandkerchiefs, the mother and sister of the novice. 

"Well?" said the abbé, passing his arm through Durtal's. 

"Well, this scene is to my mind the most touching alibi of death that itis possible to see, this living woman, who buries herself in the mostfrightful of tombs--for in it the flesh continues to suffer--iswonderful. 

"I remember that you have yourself told me of the pressure of thisobservance, and I shivered in thinking of perpetual Adoration, in thosewinter nights, when a child like this is awakened out of her firstsleep, and cast into the darkness of a chapel where unless she faintsfrom weakness or terror, she must pray alone, through the freezing hourson her knees on the pavement. 

"What passes in that conversation with the unknown, that interview withthe Shadow? Does she succeed in escaping from self, and in leaving theearth, in gaining, on the threshold of Eternity, the inconceivableSpouse, or does the soul, powerless to spring on high, remain riveted tothe soil?

"We figure her to ourselves, her face bent forward, her hands joined, making appeal to herself, concentrating herself, in order to pourherself forth the better, and we imagine her thus sickly, with nostrength left, trying to set her soul on fire in a shivering frame. Butwho can tell if on certain nights she attains to it?

"Ah! those poor lamps of exhausted oil, of flames almost dead, whichtremble in the obscurity of the sanctuary, what will God make of them?

"Then there was the family present at the taking the habit, and if thedaughter filled me with enthusiasm I could not restrain myself frompitying the mother. Think if the daughter died, the mother would embraceher, would perhaps speak to her, or if she did not recognize her, itwould at least not be with her own good will; but in this case it is notthe body, but the very soul of her child that dies before her eyes. Ofher own accord her child knows her no longer, it is the contemptuous endof an affection. You will admit that for a mother this is very hard. "

"Yes, but this so-called ingratitude, gained at the price of God knowswhat struggles, is it not, even apart from the divine vocation, the mostequitable repartition of human love? Think that this elect creaturebecomes the scapegoat of sins committed, and like a lamentable daughterof Danaus she will unceasingly pour the offering of her mortificationsand prayers, of her vigils and fastings, into the bottomless vessel ofoffences and crimes. Ah! if you knew what it was to repair the sins ofthe world. In regard to this I remember that one day the abbess of theBenedictines in the Rue Tournefort said to me: 'Since our tears are notholy enough, nor our souls pure enough, God makes trial of us in ourbodies. ' Here are long illnesses which cannot be cured, illnesses whichdoctors fail to understand, and we make thus much expiation for others. 

"But if you will think over the ceremony which is just ended, you neednot be affected beyond measure or compare it to the well-knownceremonies of a funeral; the postulant whom you saw has not yetpronounced her final vows, she can if she choose leave the convent, andreturn to her own home. At present she is in regard to her mother, achild in a foreign country, a child at school, but she is not a deadchild. 

"You may say what you please, but there is a tragedy in that door whichclosed upon her. "

"Therefore in the Benedictine convent in the Rue Tournefort, the scenetakes place in the interior of the convent, and the family is notpresent, the mother is spared, but mitigated thus, the ceremony is but amere form, almost a foolish rule in the seclusion wherein the Faith ishidden. "

"Those nuns are also Benedictines of the perpetual Adoration, are theynot?"

"Yes, do you know their convent?"

And as Durtal shook his head, the abbé continued, --

"It is older, but less interesting than that in the Rue Monsieur, thechapel is mean, full of plaster statuettes, cotton flowers, bunches ofgrapes and ears of corn in gold paper, but the old building of thenunnery is curious. It contains, what shall I call it? a schooldining-room, and a retreatant's drawing-room, and so gives at once theimpression of old age and childhood. "

"I know that class of convents, " said Durtal. "I used often to see one, when I used to visit an old aunt at Versailles. It always used toimpress me as a Maison Vauquer, brought to devotional uses, it had theair at once of a _table d'hôte_ in the Rue de la Clef and the sacristyof a country church. "

"Just so, " and the abbé went on with a smile, --

"I had many interviews with the abbess in the Rue Tournefort; you guessat rather than see her, for you are separated from her by a screen ofblack wood, behind which is stretched a black curtain which she drawsaside. "

"I can see it, " thought Durtal, who, remembering the Benedictine custom, saw in a second a little face confused in neutral tinted light, andlower, at the top of her habit, the gleam of a medal of the BlessedSacrament in red enamelled in white. 

He laughed and said to the abbé, --

"I laugh, because having had some business to transact with my nun auntof whom I was speaking, only visible like your abbess through a trellis, I found out how to read her thoughts a little. "

"Ah! how was that?"

"In this way. Since I could not see her face, which was hidden behindthe lattice of her cage, and disappeared behind her veil, and if sheshould answer me, having nothing to guide me but the inflexions of hervoice, always circumspect and always calm, I ended by trusting only toher great glasses, round, with buff frames, which almost all nuns wear. Well, all the repressed vivacity of this woman burst out there; suddenlyin a corner of her glasses, there was a glimmer, and I then understoodthat her eye had lighted up, and gave the lie to the indifference of hervoice, the determined quietness of her tone. "

The abbé in his turn began to laugh. 

"Do you know the Superior of the Benedictines, in the Rue Monsieur?"said Durtal. 

"I have spoken with her once or twice; there the parlour is monastic, there is not the provincial and middle-class side of the Rue Tournefort, it is composed of a sombre room, of which all the breadth at the end istaken up by an iron grating, and behind the grating are again woodenbars, and a shutter painted black. You are quite in the dark, and theabbess, scarcely in the light, appears to you like a phantom. "

"The abbess is, I suppose, the nun, elderly, fragile and very short, towhom Dom Etienne committed the novice?"

"Yes. She is a remarkable shepherdess of souls, and what is more, a verywell educated woman of most distinguished manners. "

"Oh, " thought Durtal: "I can imagine that these abbesses are charming, but also terrible women. Saint Teresa was goodness itself, but when shespeaks in her 'Way of Perfection' of nuns who band themselves togetherto discuss the will of their mother, she shows herself inexorable, forshe declares that perpetual imprisonment should be inflicted on them assoon as possible and without flinching, and in fact she is right, forevery disorderly sister infects the flock, and gives the rot to souls. "

Thus talking they had reached the end of the Rue de Sèvres, and the abbéstopped to rest. 

"Ah, " he said, as if speaking to himself, "had I not had all my lifeheavy expenses, first a brother, then nephews to maintain, I should manyyears ago have become a member of Saint Benedict's family. I havealways had an attraction towards that grand Order, which is, in fact, the intellectual Order of the Church. Therefore, when I was stronger andyounger, I always went for my retreats to one of their monasteries, sometimes to the black monks of Solesmes, or of Ligugé, who havepreserved the wise traditions of Saint Maurus, sometimes to theCistercians, or the white monks of La Trappe. "

"True, " said Durtal, "La Trappe is one of the great branches of the treeof Saint Benedict, but how is it that its ordinances do not differ fromthose which the Patriarch left?"

"That is to say that the Trappists interpret the rule of Saint Benedict, which is very broad and supple, less in its spirit than in its letter, while the Benedictines do the contrary. 

"In fact, La Trappe is an offshoot of Citeaux, and is much more thedaughter of Saint Bernard, who was during forty years the very sap ofthat branch, than the descendant of Saint Benedict. "

"But, so far as I remember, the Trappists are themselves divided, and donot live under a uniform discipline. "

"They do so now, since a pontifical brief dated March 17th, 1893, sanctioned the decisions of the general Chapter of the Trappistsassembled in Rome, and ordered the fusion into one sole order, and underthe direction of a sole superior, of the three observances of theTrappists, who were in fact ruled by discordant constitutions. "

And seeing that Durtal was listening attentively, the abbé continued, --

"Among these three observances, one only, that of the CistercianTrappists, to which belonged the abbey of which I was a guest, followedin their integrity the rules of the twelfth century, and led themonastic life of Saint Bernard's day. This alone recognized the rule ofSaint Benedict, taken in its strictest application, and completed by theCharte de Charité, and the use and customs of Citeaux; the two othershad adopted the same rule, but revised and modified in the seventeenthcentury by the Abbé de Rancé, and again one of them, the Belgiancongregation, had changed the statutes imposed by that abbot. 

"At the present day, as I have just said, all the Trappists form onlyone and the same institute under the name, Order of Reformed Cisterciansof the Blessed Virgin Mary of La Trappe, and all resume the rules ofCiteaux, and live again the life of the cenobites of the Middle Ages. "

"But if you have visited these ascetics, " said Durtal, "you must knowDom Etienne?"

"No, I have never stayed at La Grande Trappe, I prefer the poor andsmall monasteries where one is mixed up with the monks, to thoseimposing convents where they isolate you in a guest-house, and in a wordkeep you separate. 

"There is one in which I make my retreats, Notre Dame de l'Atre, a smallTrappist monastery a few leagues from Paris, which is quite the mostseductive of shelters. Besides that the Lord really abides there, for ithas true saints among its children, it is delightful also with itsponds, its immemorial trees, its distant solitude, far in the woods. "

"Yes, but, " observed Durtal, "the life there must be unbending, for LaTrappe is the most rigid order which has been imposed on men. "

For his only answer the abbé let go Durtal's arm, and took both hishands. 

"Do you know, " he said, looking him in the face, "it is there you mustgo for your conversion?"

"Are you serious, Monsieur l'Abbé?"

And as the priest pressed his hands more strongly Durtal cried, --

"Ah, no indeed, first I have not the stoutness of soul, and if that bepossible I have still less the bodily health needed for such a course, Ishould fall ill on my arrival, and then ... And then.... "

"And then, what? I am not proposing to you to shut you up for ever in acloister. "

"So I suppose, " said Durtal, in a somewhat piqued tone. 

"But just to remain a week, just the necessary time for a cure. Now aweek is soon over, then do you think that if you make such a resolutionGod will not sustain you?"

"That is all very fine, but ... "

"Let us speak on the health question, then;" and the abbé smiled a smileof pity that was a little contemptuous. 

"I can promise you at once that as a retreatant, you will not be boundto lead the life of a Trappist in its austerest sense. You need not getup at two in the morning for Matins, but at three, or even at fouro'clock, according to the day. "

And smiling at the face Durtal made, the abbé went on, --

"As to your food it will be better than that of the monks; naturally youwill have no fish nor meat, but you may certainly have an egg fordinner, if vegetables are not enough for you. "

"And the vegetables, I suppose, are cooked with salt and water, and noseasoning?"

"No, they are dressed with salt and water only on fasting days; at othertimes you will have them cooked in milk and water, or in oil. "

"Many thanks, " said Durtal. 

"But all that is excellent for your health, " continued the priest, "youcomplain of pains in the stomach, sick headaches, diarrhoea, well, thisdiet, in the country, in the air, will cure you better than all thedrugs you take. 

"Now let us leave, if you like, your body out of the question, for insuch a case, it is God's part to act against your weakness. I tell you, you will not be ill at La Trappe, that were absurd; it would be to sendthe penitent sinner away, and Jesus would not then be the Christ; butlet us talk of your soul. Have the courage to take its measure, to lookit well in the face. Do you see that?" said the abbé after a silence. 

Durtal did not answer. 

"Admit, " said the priest, "that you are horrified at it. "

They took a few steps in the street, and the abbé continued, --

"You declare that you are sustained by the crowds of Notre Dame desVictoires and the emanations of St. Severin. What will it be then, inthe humble chapel, when you will be on the ground huddled together withthe saints? I guarantee you in the name of the Lord an assistance suchas you have never had;" and he went on with a laugh, "I may add that theChurch will take pleasure in receiving you, she will bring out herornaments which she has now left off: the authentic liturgies of theMiddle Ages, true plain chant, without solos or organs. "

"Listen, your propositions astound me, " said Durtal with an effort. "No:I assure you I am not at all disposed to imprison myself in such aplace. I know well that at Paris I shall never come to any good. I swearto you that I am not proud of my life, nor satisfied with my soul, butfrom thence ... To ... Where I cannot tell; I want at least a mitigatedasylum, a quiet convent. There must be, on those conditions, somewhere, hospitals for souls. "

"I could only send you to the Jesuits, who make a specialty of retreatsfor men: but knowing you as I think I know you, I feel sure you wouldnot stay there two days. You would find yourself among amiable and veryclever priests, but they would overwhelm you with sermons, would wish tointerfere with your life, mix themselves up with your art, they wouldexamine your thoughts with a magnifying glass, and then you would beunder treatment with good young people, whose unintelligent piety wouldhorrify you, and you would flee in exasperation. 

"At La Trappe it is the contrary. You would certainly be the soleretreatant there, and no one will have the least idea of troublinghimself about you; you will be free, you can if you choose leave themonastery just as you entered it, without having confessed or approachedthe Sacraments, your will will be respected there, and no monk willattempt to sound it without your authority. To you only it willappertain to decide whether you will be converted or no. 

"And you will like me to be frank to the last, will you not? You are, asindeed I have already said to you, a sensitive and distrustful man;well, the priest as you see him in Paris, even the religious notcloistered, seem to you, how shall I express it? second rate souls, notto go further.... "

Durtal protested vaguely, with a gesture. 

"Let me go on. An afterthought will come to you in regard to theecclesiastic to whom will fall the task of cleansing you, you will bequite certain that he is not a saint; this is not very theological, forwere he even the worst of priests his absolution would have just thesame value, if you merit it, but indeed here is a question of sentimentwhich I respect, you will think of him in a word: he lives as I do, heis not more self-denying than I am, nothing shows that his conscience isvery superior to mine, and thence to losing all confidence, andthrowing up the whole thing there is but a step. At La Trappe, I willdefy you to reason in this way, and not to become humble. When you seemen, who after having abandoned everything to serve God, lead a life ofprivations and penance such as no government would dare to inflict onits convicts, you will indeed be obliged to admit that you are no greatthing by their side. "

Durtal was silent. After the astonishment he had felt at the suggestionof such an issue, he became dully irritated against this friend, whohitherto so discreet, had suddenly rushed upon his soul and opened it byforce. There came out the disgusting vision of an existence stripped, used up, reduced to a state of dust, a condition of rags. And Durtalshrank from himself, convinced that the abbé was right, that he must atany rate stanch the discharge of his senses, and expiate theirinappeasable desires, their abominable covetousness, their rottentastes, and he was seized with a terror irrational and intense. He hadthe giddy fear of the cloister, a terror which attracted him to theabyss over which Gévresin made him lean. 

Enervated by the ceremony of taking the habit, stunned by the blow withwhich the priest had assailed him as they left the church, he now feltan anguish almost physical, in which everything ended in confusion. Hedid not know to what reflections he should give himself, and only saw, swimming on this whirlpool of troubled ideas, one clear thought, thatthe moment had come so dreaded by him in which he must make aresolution. 

The abbé looked at him, saw that he was really suffering, and was fullof pity for a soul so unable to support a struggle. 

He took Durtal's arm, and said gently, --

"My son, believe me that the day you go yourself to the house of God, the day you knock at its door, it will open wide, and the angels willdraw aside to let you pass. The Gospel cannot lie, and it declares thatthere is more joy over one sinner that repents than over ninety and ninejust persons who need no repentance. You will be much better welcomedthan you expect, and be sufficiently my friend to think that the oldpriest you leave here will not remain inactive, and that he and theconvents he can influence will pray their best for you. "

"I will see, " said Durtal, really moved by the affectionate tone of thepriest, "I will see. I cannot decide thus, unexpectedly; I will think. Ah! it is not simple. "

"Above all things pray, " said the priest, who had reached his door. "Ihave on my side sought the Lord much that He would enlighten me, and Ideclare to you that the solution of La Trappe is the only one He hasgiven me. Ask Him humbly, in your turn, and you will be guided. I shallsoon see you again, shall I not?"

He pressed Durtal's hand, who, left alone, recovered himself at last. Then he recalled the strategic smiles, the ambiguous phrases, the dreamysilences of the Abbé Gévresin, he understood the kindness of hiscounsels, the patience of his plans; and a little put out at havingbeen, without knowing it, led so wisely, he exclaimed in spite ofhimself, "This, then, was the design the priest was ripening, with hisair of not concerning himself with it at all. "

CHAPTER IX. 

He experienced that painful awakening of a sick man whom a doctordeceives for months, who learns some fine morning that he is to be takenat once to an hospital to undergo an urgent surgical operation. "Butthat is not the way things should be done, " cried Durtal, "people shouldbe prepared, little by little, accustomed by words of warning, to theidea that they are to be cut up on a table, they are not struck downthus unexpectedly!

"Yes, but what does that matter? since I know very well, in the depthsof my soul, that this priest is right; I must leave Paris if I wish toamend; but all the same, the treatment he inflicts is hard indeed tofollow; I know not what to do. "

And from this moment his days were haunted by Trappists. He turned overthe thought of his departure, and examined it on all sides, chewed thecud of for and against, and ended by saying to himself, "That he wouldtake stock of his reflections and open an account, and this with a debitand credit side, that he might know himself the better. 

"The debit is terrible. To gather up his life, and cast it into thestove of a cloister; and again, he ought to know if his body were in astate to bear such a remedy; mine is frail and soft, accustomed to riselate; it becomes weak if not nourished by flesh meat, and is subject toneuralgia at any change of the hour of meals. I should never be able tohold out down there with vegetables cooked in warm oil or in milk; firstI detest oily cookery, and I hate milk still more, which I cannotdigest. 

"Then I think I see myself on my knees, on the floor for hours, I whosuffered so much at La Glacière in remaining in that posture, on a step, for scarce a quarter of an hour. 

"Again, I am so accustomed to cigarettes that it is absolutelyimpossible to give them up, and it is pretty certain they will not letme smoke in a monastery. 

"No, indeed, from the bodily point of view, this plan is madness; in mystate of health there is no doctor who would not dissuade me fromundertaking such a risk. 

"If I place myself in a spiritual point of view I must then againrecognize that it is terrible to enter La Trappe. 

"I am afraid indeed that my dryness of soul, my want of love willremain, and then what would become of me in such surroundings? then itis equally probable, that in that solitude and absolute silence, Ishould be wearied to death, and if it be so, what a miserable existenceis it to stalk about a cell and count the hours. No, for that one needsto be firmly fixed on God, to be dwelt in wholly by Him. 

"Moreover, there are two formidable questions which I have neverproperly weighed, because it has been painful to think of them, but nowthat they come before me, and stop the road, I must face them, thequestions of Confession and Holy Communion. 

"Confession? Yes, I will consent to it, I am so tired of myself, sodisgusted with my wretched existence that this expiation appears to meas deserved, even necessary. I desire to humble myself, I would askpardon with all my heart, but again this penance must be assigned meunder possible conditions. At La Trappe, if I believe the abbé, no onewill trouble himself about me, in other words no one will encourage me, and aid me to submit to this sorrowful extraction of my shames. I shallbe somewhat like a sick man operated on in hospital, far from hisfriends and relatives. 

"Confession, " he went on, "is an admirable discovery, for it is the mostsensitive touchstone of souls, the most intolerable act which the Churchhas ever imposed on the vanity of men. 

"Is this strange? We speak easily of our lapses, of our grosser actions, even, indeed, to a priest in conversation, that does not seem to lead toany consequences, and perhaps a little bragging enters into ouradmission of easy sins, but to tell the same thing on one's knees, accusing oneself, after prayer, is different, that which was only ratheramusing becomes a very painful humiliation, for the soul is not the dupeof this false seeming, it knows so well in its inner tribunal that allis changed, it feels so well the terrible power of the Sacrament, thathe who but now smiled, now trembles at the very thought. 

"Now, were I to find myself face to face with an old monk who emergesfrom an eternity of silence to listen to me, a monk who will not aid me, perhaps cannot even understand me, this will be terrible. I shall neverget to the end of my troubles if he does not hold out a staff to me, ifhe lets me stifle and gives no air to my soul, nor brings me help. 

"The Eucharist also seems terrible. To dare to come forward, to offerHim as a tabernacle the sewer of self scarce purified by repentance, asewer drained by absolution, but still hardly dry, is monstrous. I amquite without such courage as to offer Christ this last insult, and sothere is no good in fleeing to a monastery. 

"No; the more I think of it, the more I am obliged to conclude that Ishould be mad if I ventured into a Trappist house. 

"Now for the Credit side. The only proper work of my life would be tomake a parcel of my life, and take it to a cloister to disinfect it, andif that cost me nothing, where is the merit?

"Nothing shows me, on the other hand, that my body, however weakened, cannot support the regimen of La Trappe. Without believing or pretendingto believe with the Abbé Gévresin that that kind of food will be evenhelpful to me, I ought to count on Divine consolations, to admit theprinciple that, if I am sent there, it is not that I may take at once tomy bed, or be obliged to leave again as soon as I arrive--at least, unless that is the chastisement prepared me, the expiation demanded, andagain no, for that would be to ascribe to God pitiless tricks, and wouldbe absurd!

"As to the cookery, it matters little that it is uncivilized, if mystomach can digest it; to have bad food, and get up in the middle of thenight is nothing, provided the body can stand it, and no doubt I shallfind some means of smoking cigarettes by stealth in the woods. 

"After all, a week is soon over, and I am not even obliged, if I feelpoorly, to remain a week. 

"From the spiritual point of view, I must again count on the mercy ofGod, believe that it will not abandon me, will dress my wounds, andchange the very foundation of my soul. I know well that these argumentsdo not rest on any earthly certainty, but yet if I have proofs thatProvidence has already taken part in my affairs, I have no reason tosuppose that these arguments are weaker than the purely physical motiveswhich served to support my other thesis. Now I must recall thatconversion, so outside my will; I must take account of a fact whichshould encourage me, the weakness of the temptations which I nowexperience. 

"It is difficult to have been more rapidly and more completely heard. Whether I owe this grace to my own prayers or to those of the conventswhich have shielded me without knowing me, it is the case that for sometime past my brain has been silent and my flesh calm. That monsterFlorence appears to me still at certain times, but she does not approachme, she remains in the shade, and the end of the Lord's Prayer, the 'nenos inducas in tentationem, ' puts her to flight. 

"That is an unaccustomed fact, and yet a precise one. Why should Idoubt, then, that I shall be better upheld at La Trappe than I am inParis itself?

"There remain confession and communion. 

"Confession? It will be what the Lord chooses it should be. He willchoose the monk for me; I shall only be able to make use of him; andthen the more disagreeable it is, the better worth it will be; and if Isuffer much, I shall think myself less unworthy to communicate. 

"That is, " he went on, "the most painful point! Communicate! But let usconsider, it is certain that I shall be base in proposing to Christ thatHe should descend like a scavenger into my ditch; but if I wait till itis empty, I shall never be in a state to receive Him, for my bulkheadsare not closed, and sins would filter through the fissures. 

"All this well considered, the abbé spoke truth when he answered me oneday: 'But I too am not worthy to approach Him; thank God, I have notthose sewers of which you speak, but in the morning, when I go to say mymass, and think of all the dust of the evening, do you not think that Iam ashamed? It is always necessary, you see, to go back to the Gospels, and say to yourself that He came for the weak and the sick, thepublicans and lepers; and, in fact, you must convince yourself that theEucharist is a lookout post, a help, that it is given, as it is writtenin the ordinary of the Mass "ad tutamentum mentis et corporis et admedelam percipiendam. " It is, if I may say so, a spiritual medicine; yougo to the Saviour just as you go to a doctor, you take your soul to Himto care for it, and He does so!'

"I stand before the unknown, " pursued Durtal, "I complain that I amarid, and have wandered from the right way, but who will declare to methat, if I determine to communicate, I shall remain in the same mind;for indeed, if I have Faith, I ought to believe in the occult work ofChrist in the Sacrament. Lastly, I am afraid of being wearied bysolitude; I am not much amused here as it is, but at La Trappe I shallno longer have those vacillations at every minute, those constant fears;I shall at least have the advantage of having my time to myself; andthen ... And then ... How well I know solitude. Have I not lived apartsince the deaths of des Hermies and Carhaix? Indeed, whom do I see? Afew publishers, a few literary men, and my relations with these peopleare not interesting. As to silence, it is a blessing. I shall not hearany foolish sayings at La Trappe; I shall not listen to pitiablehomilies and poor sermons; but I ought to rejoice on being at lastisolated, far from Paris, far from men. "

He was silent, and made, as it were, a return in upon himself; and saidto himself, in a melancholy manner: "These strifes are useless, thesereflections vain. I need not try to take account of my soul, to make outthe debit and credit; I know, without knowing how, that I must go; I amthrust out of myself by an impulse which rises from the very depths ofmy being, to which I am quite certain I have to yield. "

At that moment Durtal had decided, but ten minutes afterwards theattempt at resolution vanished. He felt his cowardice gain on him oncemore, he chewed once more the cud of arguments against his moving; cameto the conclusion that his reasons for remaining in Paris were palpable, human, certain, while the others were intangible, extra-natural, andconsequently subject to illusions, perhaps false. 

And he invented for himself the fear of not obtaining the thing hefeared, said to himself that La Trappe would not receive him, orcertainly that it would refuse him communion; and then he suggested tohimself a middle term: to confess at Paris and communicate at LaTrappe. 

But then there passed in him an incomprehensible fact: his whole soulrevolted at this idea, and the formal order not to deceive himself wastruly breathed into him, and he said to himself: "No, the bitter draughtmust be drained to the last drop, it is all or nothing; if I confess tothe abbé it will be in disobedience to absolute and secret directions; Ishould be capable of not going afterwards to Notre Dame de l'Atre. 

"What shall I do?" And he accused himself of distrust, called to his aidonce more the memory of benefits received, how scales had fallen fromhis eyes, his insensible progress towards Faith, his encounter with thatsingular priest, perhaps the only one who could understand him, andtreat him in a way so benign and so elastic; but he tried in vain toreassure himself, then he called up the dream of the monastic life, thesovereign beauty of the cloister; he imagined the joy of renunciation, the peace of exalted prayers, the interior intoxication of the spirit, the delight of not being at home any longer in his own body. Some wordsof the abbé about La Trappe served as a spring-board for his dreams, andhe perceived an old abbey, grey and warm, immense avenues of trees, clouds flying confusedly amid the song of waters, silent strolls in thewoods at nightfall; he called up the solemn liturgies of SaintBenedict's time; he saw the white pith of monastic chants rise under thescarcely pruned bark of sound. He succeeded in his decision, and cried:"You have dreamed for years of the cloisters, now rejoice that you willknow them at last, " and he wished to go at once and live there; thensuddenly he fell down into reality, and said to himself: "It is easy towish to live in a monastery, to tell God that you would desire to takeshelter therein, when life in Paris weighs you down, but when it comesto the real point of emigration, it is quite another matter. "

He turned over these thoughts everywhere, in the street, at home, in thechapels. He hurried like a shuttle from one church to another, hoping tosolace his fears by changing his place, but they persisted, and renderedevery place intolerable. 

Then in the sacred places came always that dryness of soul, the brokenspring of impulse, a sudden silence within, when he desired consolationin speaking to Him. His best moments, his pauses in the hurly-burly, were a few minutes of absolute torpor, which rested like snow on thesoul and he heard nothing. 

But this drowsiness of thought lasted but a while, the whirlwind blewonce more, and the prayers which were wont to appease it refused toleave his lips, he tried religious music, the despairing sequences ofthe psalms, pictures of the Crucifixion by the Early Masters, to excitehim, but his prayers ran on and became confused on his lips, weredivested of all sense, mere words, empty shells. 

At Notre Dame des Victoires, where he dragged himself that he might thawa little under the warmth of his neighbours' prayers, he did in factfeel less chilly, and seemed to break up a little, fell drop by dropinto sorrows which he could not formulate, and were all summed up in thecry of a sick child, in which he said to Our Lady, in low tones: "Mysoul is sorrowful. "

Thence he returned to St. Severin, sat down under those arches brownedby the rust of prayers, and, haunted by his fixed idea, he pleaded forhimself extenuating circumstances, exaggerated the austerities of LaTrappe, tried almost to exasperate his fear to excuse his weakness in avague appeal to Our Lady. 

"But I must go and see the Abbé Gévresin, " he murmured, but his couragestill failed him to pronounce the "Yes" which the priest would surelyrequire from him. He ended by discovering a reason for his visit, without thinking himself obliged to promise just yet. 

"After all, " he thought, "I have no precise information about thismonastery; I do not even know whether it may not be necessary to take along and expensive journey to get there; the abbé indeed declares thatit is not far from Paris, but it is impossible to decide on this simpledeclaration; it will be useful also to know the habits of thesecenobites before going to stay with them. "

The abbé smiled when Durtal mentioned these objections. 

"The journey is short, " he said. "You start from the Gare du Nord ateight o'clock in the morning for Saint Landry, where you arrive at aquarter to twelve; you lunch at an inn close to the station, and whileyou are drinking your coffee they get you a carriage, and after a driveof four hours you arrive at Notre Dame de l'Atre for dinner. There is nodifficulty there. 

"Then the cost is moderate. As far as I remember the railway fare isabout fifteen francs, add two or three francs for lunch, and six orseven for the carriage ... "

And as Durtal was silent, the abbé went on: "Well?"

"Ah yes, yes ... If you knew ... I am in a pitiable state, I will andwill not, I know well that I ought to take refuge there, but in spite ofmyself, I wish to gain time and put off the hour of departure. "

And he continued: "My soul is out of gear, when I would pray, my sensesgo all astray, I cannot recollect myself, and if I succeed in pullingmyself together, five minutes do not pass but I am all astray again; no, I have neither fervour nor true contrition, I do not love God enough, ifit must be said. 

"And, indeed, during the last two days, a frightful certainty has grownup in me; I am sure that, in spite of my good intentions, if I foundmyself in the presence of a certain person, whose sight troubles me, Ishould send religion to the devil, I should return eagerly to my vomit;I only hold on because I am not tempted, I am no better than when I wassinning. You will admit that I am in a wretched state to enter aTrappist monastery. "

"Your reasons are at least weak, " answered the abbé. "You say first thatyour prayers are distracted, that you are unable to concentrate yourattention; but in fact you are just like everybody else. Even SaintTeresa declares that often she was unable to recite the Credo withoutdistraction, it is a weakness in which we must just take our portionhumbly: above all things it is necessary not to lay too much stress onthese evils, for the fear of seeing them return ensures their assiduity;you are distracted in prayer by the very fear of distraction, and byregret for it; go forth more boldly, look at things more widely, pray asbest you can, and do not trouble yourself. 

"Again, you declare that if you meet a certain person whose attractionis a trouble to you, you will succumb. How do you know that? why shouldyou take care about seductions which God does not yet inflict upon you, and which He will perhaps spare you? Why doubt His mercy? Why notbelieve, on the contrary, that if He judge the temptation useful, Hewill aid you enough to prevent your sinking under it?

"In any case you ought not, by anticipation, to fear disgust at yourweakness; the Imitation declares 'There is nothing more foolish andvain, than to afflict ourselves about future things which may perhapsnever happen. ' No, it is enough to occupy ourselves with the present, for 'Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof, '--'sufficit dieimalitia sua. '

"Finally you say you do not love God; again I answer, what do you knowabout it? You have this love by the very token that you desire to haveit, and that you regret you have it not; you love our Lord by the veryfact that you desire to love Him. "

"That is special pleading, " murmured Durtal. "But indeed, " he went on, "suppose at La Trappe, the monk revolted at the long outrage of my sins, refused me absolution, and forbade me to communicate. "

The abbé burst out laughing. 

"You are mad! What is your notion of Christ?"

"Not of Christ, but of His intermediary the human being who replacesHim. "

"You can only chance upon a man pointed out beforehand from above tojudge you; moreover, at Notre Dame de l'Atre you have every chance ofkneeling at the feet of a saint, therefore God will inspire him, will bepresent, you have nothing to fear. 

"As to the Communion, the prospect of being rejected terrifies you, butis not that one proof the more that, contrary to your opinion, God doesnot leave you insensible?"

"Yes, but the idea of communicating alarms me none the less. "

"I say to you again: if Jesus were indifferent to you, it would be justthe same to you, to consume or not to consume the sacred species. "

"All that does not convince me, " sighed Durtal. "I do not know where Iam; I am afraid of a confessor, of others, of myself; it is foolish, butit is stronger than I. I cannot gain the upper hand. "

"You are afraid of the water; imitate Gribouille, throw yourself inboldly; look, suppose I write to La Trappe this very day to say you arecoming; when?"

"Oh!" cried Durtal, "wait a while. "

"To get an answer, we need two days each way; will you go there fivedays hence?"

And, as Durtal was astounded and silent, "Is that settled?"

Then, at that moment, Durtal had a strange experience, as often at St. Severin, a sort of caressing touch and gentle push; he felt a willinsinuate itself into his own, and he drew back disquieted at seeing hehad a double self, to find he was no longer alone in the depth of hisbeing; then he was inexplicably reassured, and gave himself up, and assoon as he had said "Yes" he felt immensely relieved; then passing fromone extreme to the other, he was troubled at the idea that his departurecould not take place at once, and was sorry that he had still to passfive days in Paris. 

The abbé laughed. "But the Trappists must have notice, it is a simpleformality, for with a word from me, you will be received at once, butwait at least until I have sent this word; I will post it this evening, so have no anxiety, and sleep in peace. "

Durtal in his turn laughed at his own impatience. "You must think mevery ridiculous, " he said. 

The priest shrugged his shoulders. "Come, you asked me about my littlemonastery; I must try to satisfy you. It is very small, if compared withthe grande Trappe at Soligny, or the establishments at Sept Fonds, Meilleray or Aiguebelle, for there are only about ten choir fathers, andabout thirty lay brothers or 'conversi. ' There are also a certain numberof peasants who work with them, and help them to till their land, andmake their chocolate. "

"They make chocolate!"

"That surprises you. How do you think they live? Ah! I warn you, you arenot going into a sumptuous monastery. "

"I like it so. But in regard to the stories of La Trappe, I suppose themonks do not greet each other with 'Brother, we must die, ' and that theydo not dig their graves every morning?"

"All that is false. They take no trouble about their graves, and theysalute each other silently, since they are forbidden to speak. "

"Then what am I to do if I need anything?"

"The abbot, the confessor, and the guest-master have the right ofconversing with the guests, you will have to do with them alone; theothers will bow when you meet them, but if you speak to them they willnot answer. "

"It is well to know that. What is their dress?"

"Before the foundation of Citeaux, the Benedictines wore, or so it issupposed, the black habit of Saint Benedict; the Benedictines properlyso-called wear it still, but at Citeaux the colour was changed, and theTrappists, who are a twig of this branch, have adopted the white robe ofSaint Bernard. "

"Pray pardon all these questions, which must seem childish, but since Iam about to visit these monks, I ought to be in some measure acquaintedwith the customs of their order. "

"I am wholly at your disposition, " replied the abbé. 

Durtal asked him about the situation of the abbey itself, and hereplied, "The present monastery dates from the eighteenth century, but you willsee in the gardens the ruins of the old cloister, which was built in thetime of Saint Bernard. In the Middle Ages there was a succession ofBlessed in this convent; it is a truly sanctified land, fit formeditation and regret. 

"The abbey is situated at the bottom of a valley, according to theorders of Saint Bernard; for you know that if Saint Benedict loved thehills, Saint Bernard sought the low and moist plains wherein to foundhis convents. An old Latin line has preserved the different tastes ofthese two saints:

 "'Bernardus valles, colles Benedictus amabat. '"

"Was it on account of his own personal liking, or for a pious end, thatSaint Bernard built his hermitages in unwholesome and flat places?"

"In order that his monks, whose health was enfeebled by the fogs, mighthave constantly before their eyes the salutary image of death. "

"The deuce he did!"

"I may add at once that the valley in which Notre Dame de l'Atre risesis now drained, and the air is very pure. You will stroll by delightfulponds, and I may recommend you, on the borders of the enclosure, anavenue of secular chestnuts, where you may take some refreshing walksat daybreak. "

And after a silence the Abbé Gévresin continued, --

"Walk there a good deal, traverse the woods in all directions; theforests will tell you more about your soul than books: 'Aliquid ampliusinvenies in sylvis quam in libris, ' wrote Saint Bernard--'pray and yourdays will seem short. '"

Durtal went away from the priest's house comforted, almost joyful; hefelt at least the solace of a fixed decision, a resolution taken atlast. He said to himself that the only thing now to be done was toprepare himself as best he could for the retreat, and he prayed and wentto bed for the first time for months with his mind at rest. 

But next day, when he woke, his mood changed, all his preconceivedideas, all his fears returned; he asked himself if his conversion wereripe enough to allow him to cut it separate, and carry it to La Trappe;the fear of a confessor, the dread of the unknown, assailed him afresh. "I was wrong to have answered so soon, " and he asked himself, "Why did Isay 'yes'?" The recollection of this word pronounced by his lips, conceived by a will which was still his own and yet other than his, cameback to his mind. "It is not the first time that such a thing happenedto me, " he thought, "I have already experienced when alone in thechurches unexpected counsels, silent orders, and it must be admittedthat it is terrifying to feel this infusion into self of an invisiblebeing, and to know that he can, if he choose, almost turn you out of thedomain of your personality. 

"But no, it is not that, there is no substitution of an exterior will toone's own, for one's free will is absolutely intact; neither is it oneof those irresistible impulses endured by certain sick persons, fornothing is more easy than to resist it; it is still less a suggestion, since, in this case, there are no magnetic passes, no somnambulisminduced, no hypnotism; no, it is the irresistible entrance into oneselfof a strange will, the sudden intrusion of a precise and discreetdesire, a pressure on the soul at once firm and gentle. Ah! again I amincorrect, and play the fool, but nothing can describe that closepressure, which vanishes at the least movement of impatience--it is feltbut cannot be expressed. 

"Its introduction is always attended by surprise, almost with anguish, since it does not make use of even an interior voice to make itselfheard, and is formulated without the aid of words, all is blotted out, the breath which has thrilled you disappears. You would wish that thisincitement should be confirmed, that the phenomenon should be repeatedin order to be more closely observed, to try to analyze it andunderstand it, when lo! it is gone; you remain alone with yourself, arefree not to obey, your will is unfettered and you know it, but you knowalso that if you reject these invitations you take on yourselfunspeakable risks for the future. 

"In fact, " pursued Durtal, "it is an angelic influx, a divine touch, something analogous to the interior voice so well known by the mystics, but it is less complete, less precise, and yet it is quite as certain. "

He ended his dreams concluding, "I am consumed and collared by myself, before being able to answer this priest, whose arguments would scarcepersuade me, unless I had had this help, this unexpected succour. 

"But then, since I am thus led by the hand, what have I to fear?"

He feared all the same, and could not be at peace with himself; then ifhe profited by the comfort of a decision, he was consumed for the momentby the expectation of his departure. 

He tried to kill time in reading, but he had to admit once more that hecould not expect consolation from any book. None came even distantlyinto relation with his state of mind. High Mysticism was so littlehuman, soared at such heights far from our mire, that no sovereign aidcould be expected from it. He ended by falling back on the "Imitation, "in which Mysticism, placed within the reach of the crowd, was like atrembling and plaintive friend who stanched your wounds within the cellsof its chapters, prayed and wept with you, and in any casecompassionated the desolate widowhood of souls. 

Unfortunately, Durtal had read so much, and was so saturated with theGospels, that he had temporarily exhausted their sedative and soothingvirtues. Tired of reading, he again began his courses in the churches. "And suppose the Trappists will not have me, " he thought, "what willbecome of me?"

"But I tell you that they will receive you, " said the abbé, whom he wentto see. He was not easy till the day the priest handed him the answerfrom La Trappe. 

He read:--

 "We will receive with pleasure, for a week, in our guest-house the retreatant whom you wish to commend to us, and I do not see at the moment any reason why the retreat should not begin next Tuesday. 

 "In the hope, Monsieur l'Abbé, that we shall also have the pleasure of seeing you again in our solitude, I beg to assure you that I am yours most respectfully, "F. M. ETIENNE, "_Guestmaster. _"

He read and re-read it, at once delighted and terrified. "There is nofurther doubt; it is irrevocable, " he said, and he went at once in hasteto St. Severin, having less need of prayer than of going near to OurLady; of showing himself to her, paying her, as it were, a visit ofthankfulness, and expressing his gratitude by his very presence. 

He was taken by the charms of that church, its silence, the shadow whichfell on the apse, from the height of its palm trees of stone, and heended by caring for nothing and sinking on a chair, filled with one soledesire, not to enter again on the life of the streets, never to leavehis refuge, never to move. 

The next day, which was a Sunday, he went to the Benedictine nuns tohear High Mass. A black monk celebrated; he recognized a Benedictinewhen the priest chanted "Dominous vobiscoum, " for the Abbé Gévresin hadtold him that the Benedictines pronounced Latin like Italian. 

Though he was not inclined to like that pronunciation which took awayfrom Latin the sonorous tones of its words, and turned after a fashionthe phrases of that tongue into a ring of bells with their clappersmuffled or their vases stuffed with tow, he let himself go, taken holdof by the unction, by the humble piety of the monk, who almost trembledwith reverence and joy when he kissed the altar, and he had a deepvoice, to which, behind the grating, answered the clear high voices ofthe nuns. 

Durtal panted, listening to the fluid pictures of the Early Masterssketch and form and paint themselves on the air; he was affected to hisvery marrow, as he had formerly been during High Mass at St. Severin. Hehad lost that emotion now in that church, where the flower of melody hadfaded for him since he knew the Benedictine plain song, and he now foundit again, or rather he took it with him from St. Severin to this chapel. 

And for the first time he had a wild desire, a desire so violent that itseemed to melt his heart. 

It was at the moment of the Communion. The monk, elevating the Host, uttered the "Domine non sum dignus. " Pale, with drawn features, sorrowful eyes, and serious mouth, he seemed to have escaped from amonastery of the Middle Ages, cut out of one of those Flemish pictureswhere the monks are standing in the background, while, before them, nunsare praying on their knees with joined hands, near the donors, to thechild Jesus on whom the Virgin smiles, while lowering her long lashesunder her arching brow. 

And while he descended the steps and communicated two women, Durtaltrembled, and his desires went forth towards the ciborium. 

It seemed to him that if he were nourished on that Bread, there would bean end of all his dryness and all his fears; it would seem to him thatthe wall of his sins, higher and higher from year to year, and nowbarring his view, would roll away, and at last he would see. And he wasin haste to set off for La Trappe, that he too might receive the SacredBody from the hands of a monk. 

That mass gave him new strength like a tonic, he came out of the chapeljoyful and firmer, and when the impression grew somewhat feebler in thecourse of hours, he remained perhaps less affected, but still resolute, joking in the evening with a gentle melancholy about his condition:"There are many people who go to Barèges or Vichy to cure their bodies, and why should not I go and cure my soul in a Trappist monastery?"

CHAPTER X. 

"I shall make myself a prisoner in two days, " sighed Durtal; "it is timeto think about packing. What books shall I take to help me to live downthere?"

He searched his library, and turned over the mystical books, which had, by degrees, replaced profane works on the shelves. 

"I will not talk of Saint Teresa, " he thought; "neither she, nor SaintJohn of the Cross, would be indulgent enough to me in solitude; I haveneed of more pardon and consolation. "

"Saint Denys the Areopagite, or the apocryphal book known under thatname? He is the first of the Mystics, and perhaps has gone the furthestin his theological definitions. He lives in the rarefied air of themountain tops, above the gulfs, on the threshold of the other worldwhich he sees in part by flashes of grace, and he remains lucid, undazzled in the blaze of light around him. 

"It seems that in his 'Celestial Hierarchies, ' in which he brings out inprocession the armies of heaven, and shows the meaning of angelicattributes and symbols, he has already passed the limits assigned toman, and yet in his 'Divine Names' he ventures even a step further, andthen he raises himself into the super-essence of metaphysics at oncecalm and stern. 

"He over-heats the human word to give it greater force, but when afterall his efforts he endeavours to define the Indescribable, todistinguish those never to be confounded Persons of the Trinity who intheir plurality never lose their unity, words fail on his lips, and histongue is paralyzed under his pen; then tranquilly and without anyastonishment he makes himself again a child, comes down from thoseheights among us, and in order to try and explain to us what heunderstands, he has recourse to comparisons with domestic life; and thathe may explain the Trinity in Unity he notices how, if many torches belighted in one hall, lights, though distinct, mingle in one, and are infact no more than one. 

"Saint Denys, " thought Durtal, "is one of the boldest explorers of theeternal regions, but he would be dry reading at La Trappe. "

"Ruysbröck?" he thought--"perhaps, and yet I hardly am sure--I might puthim in my bag as well as for a cordial the little collection distilledby Hello; as for the Spiritual Marriages, so well translated byMaeterlinck, they are disconnected and obscure, they stifle me, thisRuysbröck oppresses me less. This hermit is singular, all the same, forhe does not enter into us, but rather goes round about us; heendeavours, like Saint Denys, to arrive at God, rather in heaven than inthe soul, but in wishing to take such a flight, he strains his wings, and stammers incomprehensibly when he comes down. 

"We will leave him behind, then. Now let us see. Saint Catherine ofGenoa? Her discussions between the soul, the body, and self-love areunmeaning and confused, and when in her 'Dialogues, ' she treats of theoperations of the interior life, she is greatly below Saint Teresa andSaint Angela. On the other hand her Treatise on Purgatory is clear. Itdeclares that she alone has penetrated into the spaces of unknownsorrows, and that she has disentangled and taken hold of the joys; shehas in fact succeeded in reconciling two contraries which seemedeternally repugnant; the suffering of the soul in its purification fromsin, and the joy of the same soul, which at the very moment it isenduring frightful torment experiences immense happiness, for little bylittle it draws near to God, and feels His rays attract it more andmore, and His love inundate it with such excess, that it would seem theSaviour desires nought but only it. 

"Saint Catherine sets forth also that Jesus forbids heaven to none, thatit is the soul herself who, deeming herself unworthy to attain it, flings herself by her own motion into Purgatory there to cleanseherself, for she has only one end, to re-establish herself in herprimitive purity, only one desire, to attain her last end, bydestroying herself, annihilating herself, losing herself in God. 

"This is a conclusive study, " murmured Durtal, "but not that which wouldlead to La Trappe. We must try again. "

He touched other volumes in the book-cases. 

"Here, for instance, is one which obviously I should use, " he went on, as he took down the "Seraphic Theology" of Saint Bonaventure, "for hecondenses the means of self-examination, of meditation for communion, ofthoughts on death, then in these 'Selections' is a treatise on theContempt of the World, whose terse phrases are admirable; it is the trueessence of the Holy Spirit, a jelly of unction firm set--we will putthat on one side. 

"I shall hardly find a better help to remedy the probable weariness ofsolitude, " murmured Durtal, turning over new ranks of volumes. He lookedat the titles. "The Life of the Blessed Virgin, " by M. Olier. 

He hesitated, saying to himself, "Under a style which is like water withscarcely the chill off, there are some interesting observations, sometasteful comments. M. Olier has in a way traversed the mysteriousterritory of hidden designs, and has there discovered the unimaginabletruths which the Lord is sometimes pleased to reveal to His saints. Hehas made himself the liege-man of Our Lady, and living near her has madehimself also the herald of her attributes, the legate of her graces. HisLife of Mary is certainly the only one which seems really inspired andis possible to read. Where the abbess of Agreda wanders, he aloneremains vigorous and clear. He shows us the Virgin existing from alleternity in God, conceiving without ceasing to be immaculate, like thecrystal which receives and reflects the rays of the sun, yet losesnothing of its lustre, and indeed shines with greater brightness, bringing forth without pain, but suffering at the death of her Son thepangs she would have borne at His birth. Then he gives us learneddissertations on Her whom he calls the Treasure-house of all good, theMediatrix of love and impetration. Yes, but to converse with Her nothingis so good as the 'Officium parvum beatĉ Virginis, ' and that, " concludedDurtal, "I will put in my bag with my Prayer-book; we will not disturbM. Olier's volume. "

"My stock begins to give out, " he continued. "Angela of Foligno?Certainly she is a brasier at which one may warm one's soul. I will takeher with me. What more--Tauler's Sermons? I am tempted to do so, fornever has any treated better than this monk the most abstruse subjectswith a more perfectly lucid mind. By aid of familiar images, humbleanalogies, he has rendered accessible the highest speculations ofMysticism. He is homely and deep, then he borrows a little fromquietism, and, perhaps, it will be no bad thing to absorb, down there, afew drops of that mixture. Yet on the whole, no; I have rather need ofnerve tonics. As to Suso, he is a remedy far inferior to SaintBonaventure, or Saint Angela. I put aside also Saint Bridget of Sweden, for in her conversations with heaven she seems aided by a God morose andtired, who reveals to her nothing unexpected, nothing new. 

"There is also Saint Magdalen of Pazzi, that voluble Carmelite whosework is a series of apostrophes. An exclamatory person, clever atanalogies, expert in coincidences, a saint infatuated with metaphors andhyperboles. She talks directly with God the Father, and stammers out inecstasy explanations of the mysteries revealed to her by the Ancient ofdays. Her books contain one sovereign page on the Circumcision, anothermagnificent one, entirely made up of antitheses, on the Holy Spirit, others, very strange, on the deification of the human soul, on its unionwith heaven, and on the part assigned in this operation to the wounds ofthe Word. 

"These are inhabited nests; the eagle which is the symbol of Faithresides in the eyrie of the left foot; in the hole of the right footresides the melancholy sweetness of the turtle-doves; in the wound ofthe left hand the dove ensconces herself, the symbol of surrender, andin the cavity of the right hand reposes the pelican, the emblem of love. 

"These birds leave their nests and come to seek the soul that they maylead it to the nuptial chamber of the wound which bleeds in the side ofChrist. 

"Was it not also that Carmelite nun who, ravished by the power of grace, despised so greatly the certitude acquired by the way of the senses, asto say to the Lord: 'If I saw Thee with mine eyes, I should have Faithno more, because Faith ceases where evidence comes in'?

"All things considered, " he said; "Magdalen of Pazzi, with her dialoguesand contemplations, opens eloquent horizons, but the soul, snared in thebird-lime of its sins, cannot follow her. No; this saint cannot reassureme in the cloister. 

"Ah!" he went on, shaking the dust from a volume in a grey cover; "ah!it is true I have The Precious Blood, of Father Faber. " And he began todream as he turned over its pages where he stood. 

He remembered the impression, till now forgotten, produced on him whenhe read it. The work of this Oratorian was at least strange. The pagesboiled over, ran forth tumultuously, carrying with them grandiosevisions, such as Hugo conceived, developing historical perspectives suchas Michelet loved to paint. In this volume was seen advancing the solemnprocession of the Precious Blood, starting from the confines ofhumanity, from the origin of the ages, and it broke the bounds of theworlds, overwhelmed the nations, submerged history. 

Father Faber was less a mystic, properly so-called, than a visionary anda poet; in spite of the abuse of rhetoric transferred from the pulpit toa book, he tore up souls by roots, carried them away on the rush of thestream, but when one regained footing, and sought to remember what hadbeen heard and seen, one could recall nothing; on reflection onerecognized that the theme of the work was very thin, too slender to havebeen executed by so noisy an orchestra, and there remained of thatreading something distracting and feverish which made you uneasy, andmade you think that this kind of book had only very distant relation tothe heavenly fulness of the great mystics. 

"No, not that, " thought Durtal. "Now what have we selected? I keep thelittle collection of Ruysbröck, the Life of Angela of Foligno, and SaintBonaventure, and the best of all for my state of soul, " he said, striking his forehead. He went back to his book-case, and seized alittle book, which lay alone in a corner. 

He sat down, and turned it over, saying, "Here is the tonic, thestimulant in weakness, the strychnine for failure of Faith, the goadwhich drives you in tears to the feet of Christ, the 'Dolorous Passion'of Sister Emmerich. "

She was no chemist of the spiritual being, like Saint Teresa; she hadnothing to do with our interior life; in her book she forgot herself, and left us on one side, for she saw only Jesus crucified, and wishedonly to show the stages of His agony, and to leave marked on her pages, as on the veil of Veronica, the imprint of the Holy Face. 

Though she was of our time, for Catherine Emmerich died in 1824, thisgreat work dates from the Middle Ages. It is a picture which seems tobelong to the early schools of Franconia and Swabia. This woman was thesister of the Zeitbloms and the Grünewalds, she had their clear visions, their vivid colouring, their wild scent; but she seemed to bring backalso, by her care for exact detail, by her precise indication of places, the old Flemish Masters, Roger Van der Weyden and Bouts; she united inherself two currents, springing one from Germany, the other fromFlanders, and this painting brushed in with blood, and varnished withtears, was transposed by her into a prose style which has no relation toany known literature, of which we can only find by analogy the ancestryin the panels of the fifteenth century. 

Moreover, she was quite illiterate, had never read a book, nor seen apainting; she told quite plainly what she saw in her ecstasies. 

The pictures of the Passion unfolded themselves before her while she wasbed-ridden, crushed by suffering, bleeding from the wounds of herstigmata; she mourned and wept, brought to nothingness by love and pity, before the torments of Christ. 

According to her words, which a scribe took down, Calvary rose, and thewhole rascaldom of the soldiers rushed at the Saviour and spat on Him;frightful episodes took place where Jesus, chained to a pillar, twistinglike a worm, under the lashes of the scourgers, then falling, lookingwith His failing eyes, at the fallen women who held Him by the hand, andturned away in disgust from His lacerated body, from His face coveredwith threads of blood as with a red net. 

Then slowly, patiently, only stopping to sob, and cry for mercy, shedescribed the soldiers tearing away the stuff which had stuck to thewounds, the Virgin weeping; her face livid and her lips blue, sherelated the agony of His bearing His Cross, how He fell on His knees, grew weaker and more worn when death came. 

It was a frightful spectacle, told in its every particular, forming asublime and frightful whole. The Redeemer was extended on a cross laidon the ground, one of the executioners placed a knee against His side, while another spread His fingers abroad, and a third hammered in aflat-headed nail as broad as a crown, and so long that the point cameout behind the wood. And when the right hand was riveted the torturerssaw that the left would not reach to the place they intended to pierce, therefore they attached a rope to the arm, pulled it with all theirforce, dislocated the shoulder, and the cries of the Saviour were heardabove the blows of the hammer, His breast was seen heaving, while Hisbody was anguished and furrowed by terrible shuddering. 

The same scene was repeated to fix His feet. They also did not reach theplace which the executioners had marked. The body had to be tied and thearms bound so as not to tear the hands from the wood, and then it wasnecessary to hang on the legs so as to lengthen them as far as thebracket on which they were to rest; all at once the entire body yielded, the ribs moved under the skin; the shock was so fearful, that theexecutioners believed that the bones would start, and burst the flesh, wherefore they made haste to rest the left foot on the right, but theirdifficulties began again, the feet turned over, and it was necessary tobore them with an auger to fasten them. 

This continued till Jesus died, when Sister Emmerich fainted fromterror, her stigmata bled afresh, and her wounded head rained blood. 

In this book the whole pack of Jewish hounds was seen in full cry, theimprecations and shouts of the crowd were heard, the Virgin was showntrembling with fever, the Magdalen, beyond herself, was terrible by hercries, and towering above this lamentable group, Christ appeared, paleand swollen, His legs entangled in His robe, when He mounted to Golgothaclenching His broken nails on the cross as it slipped from His grasp. 

This extraordinary visionary, Catherine Emmerich, also described thesurroundings of these scenes, the landscapes of Judĉa, which she hadnever visited, but have since been recognized as exact; without knowingit, without willing it, this illiterate woman became an unique andpowerful artist. 

"Wonderful visionary, wonderful painter, " cried Durtal, "and alsowonderful saint, " he added, running over the life of this nun, placed asa preface to the book. 

She was born in 1774, in the diocese of Münster, the child of poorpeasants. From her infancy she had conversations with the Virgin, andpossessed the gift which also was given to Saint Sibylline of Pavia, Idaof Louvain, and more recently to Louise Lateau, of discerning, when shelooked at, or touched them, objects which had been blessed from thosewhich had not. She entered, as a novice, the Augustinian convent atDulmen, made her profession when she was twenty-nine; her health failedand incessant pain tortured her, which she increased, for, like BlessedLidwine, she obtained from Heaven permission to suffer for others, andsuccour the sick by taking their maladies. In 1811, under the governmentof Jerome Bonaparte, King of Westphalia, the convent was suppressed andthe nuns dispersed. Infirm and penniless, she was carried to a room inan inn where she had to bear every sort of curiosity and insult. Christadded to her martyrdom in giving her the stigmata for which she asked;she could neither rise, nor walk, nor sit, could take no food but thejuice of a cherry, but she was transported by long ecstasies. In theseshe visited Palestine, following the Saviour step by step, dictated withgroans this fond book, then said with her death-rattle, "Let me die inshame with Jesus on the Cross, " and died overwhelmed with joy, thankingHeaven for the life of suffering she had endured. 

"Ah, yes; I will take the 'Dolorous Passion!'" cried Durtal to himself. 

"Take the Gospels also, " said the abbé, who came in meanwhile; "they arethe heavenly phials from which you will draw the oil you need to dressyour wounds. "

"It will be equally useful, and truly in accordance with the atmosphereof La Trappe, to be able to read in the abbey itself the works of SaintBernard, but they consist of unmanageable folios, and the abridgmentsand extracts in volumes of a more convenient form are so ill-chosen, that I have never had the courage to buy them. "

"They have Saint Bernard at La Trappe, and will lend you the volumes ifyou ask them; but where are you from the spiritual point of view? Howare you getting on?"

"I am melancholy, badly prepared and resigned. I cannot tell ifweariness has come from my turning always on the same round, like acircus horse, but at this moment I am not suffering. I am persuaded thatthis change of place is necessary, and that it would be useless tohesitate. All the same, " he said, after a silence, "it is very odd thatI am going to imprison myself in a monastery, and in truth, in spite ofmyself, that astonishes me. "

"I will admit, " said the abbé, laughing, "that when I first met you atTocane's, I never thought I was pointed out to direct you to amonastery; ah, you see I must evidently belong to that category ofpeople whom I may call mere bridges, involuntary brokers of souls whoare imposed on you for a certain end which you do not suspect, and ofwhich even themselves are ignorant. "

"Rather, if any one were a mere bridge in this matter, " answered Durtal, "it was Tocane, for it was he who brought us together, and we kick himaway as soon as he has finished his unconscious task; it was evidentlydesigned that we should know each other. "

"That is true, " said the abbé, with a smile; "now I do not suppose Ishall see you again before you start, for I go to-morrow to Mâcon, whereI shall stay five days, time to see my nephews and to sign some lawpapers: at any rate keep up your courage, and do not forget to send menews of yourself. Write to me without much delay, that I may find yourletter when I return to Paris. "

And as Durtal thanked him for his constant kindness, he took his handand held it in his own. 

"Say nothing about that, " he said; "you have only to thank Him, whosefatherly impatience has broken the obstinate slumber of your Faith; youowe thanks to God only. 

"Thank Him in getting rid of your nature as soon as possible, andleaving the house of your conscience empty for Him. The more you die toyourself the better will He live in you. Prayer is the most powerfulascetic means by which you can renounce yourself, empty yourself andrender yourself humble in this matter; pray therefore without ceasing atLa Trappe. Implore our Lady especially, for like myrrh which consumesthe proud flesh of wounds, she heals the ulcers of the soul; I on myside will pray for you as best I can; you can thus in your weaknesslean, so as not to fall, on that firm and protecting pillar of prayer ofwhich Saint Teresa speaks. Once again, a safe journey to you; we shallmeet soon again, my son, good-bye. "

Durtal remained much disturbed. "It is most tiresome, " he thought, "thatthis priest is leaving Paris before me, for indeed if I have need ofspiritual help or counsel, to whom shall I go? It is clearly writtenthat I must end as I have begun, alone, but ... But ... Solitude underthese conditions is alarming. I am no spoilt child, whatever the abbémay say. "

Next morning Durtal awoke ill; furious neuralgia bored his temples likea gimlet; he tried to stop it with antipyrine, but this medicine in alarge dose put his stomach out of order without abating the strokes ofthe machine which penetrated his skull. He wandered about his rooms, changing from one seat to another, coiling himself up in an arm-chair, getting up to lie down again, jumping from his bed in fits of sickness, upsetting his furniture from time to time. 

He could assign no precise cause for this attack; he had slept his fill, and had not exceeded in any way the night before. 

He thought, with his head in his hands, "There are still two dayscounting to-day before I leave Paris, and very fit I am for it! I shallnot be in a state to travel by train, and if I travel, the food at LaTrappe will finish me. "

He had a minute's comfort from the idea that through no fault of his ownhe might perhaps avoid his painful duty, and remain at home; but thereaction was immediate; he understood that if he did not go, he waslost; the vacillation of his soul had become chronic, the crisis ofdisgust of self, the acute regret of an effort consented to with pain, and suddenly missed, the certainty that it would only be postponed for atime, that he would have to pass again through alternations of revoltand terror, and begin again to fight with himself for conviction. 

"Admitting that I am not in a state to travel, I have always theresource of making my confession to the abbé when he returns, and ofcommunicating in Paris, " he thought, but he shook his head, saying tohimself once more that he felt and knew that was not his duty. "Butthen, " he said to God: "since Thou dost implant this idea in me soviolently that I cannot even discuss it, in spite of its entire commonsense--for after all it is not necessary to immure myself in a Trappistmonastery in order to reconcile myself to Thee--then let me go!"

And he spoke to God quietly. 

"My soul is an evil place, sordid and infamous; till now it has lovedonly perverse ways; it has exacted from my wretched body the tithe ofillicit pleasures and unholy joys, it is worth little, it is worthnothing, and yet down there near Thee, if Thou wilt succour me, I thinkthat I shall subdue it, but if my body be sick, I cannot force it toobey me; this is worse than all, I am disarmed if Thou do not come to myaid. 

"Take count of this, O Lord; I know by experience that when I amill-fed, I have neuralgia; humanly, logically speaking, I am certain tobe horribly ill at Notre Dame de l'Atre; nevertheless, if I can getabout at all, the day after to-morrow, I will go all the same. 

"In default of love, this is the sole proof I can give that I trulydesire Thee, that truly I hope and believe in Thee, but then, O Lord, aid me. "

He added sadly, "Ah! indeed I am no Lidwine or Catherine Emmerich, whowhen Thou didst strike them cried out, More, more!--Thou dost scarcetouch me, and I protest; but what wouldest Thou? Thou dost know betterthan I; physical suffering breaks me down, drives me to despair. "

He went to sleep at last to kill the day in bed; slumbering to wakeagain suddenly from frightful nightmares. 

The next day his head seemed empty and his heart feeble, but hisneuralgia was less violent. He rose, saying to himself that he must eat, though he was not hungry, for fear his pain should return. He went outand wandered in the Luxembourg, saying to himself that he must arrangehis time, that after breakfast he would visit St. Severin, then he wouldgo home and pack, and afterwards finish the day at Notre Dame desVictoires. 

The walk did him good, his head was lighter, and his heart free. He wentinto a restaurant, where because of the early hour nothing was ready; hespent the time before a newspaper, on a bench. How often he had heldpapers thus without reading them, how many evenings he had waited incafés with his nose in an article, thinking of other matters, at thosetimes especially when he was striving with his vices; when Florenceappeared to him, still keeping the clear smile of a little girl on herway to school, her eyes cast down, her hands in the pockets of herapron. 

Suddenly the child changed into a ghoul who whirled round him wildly, and made him silently understand the horror of his desires.... 

All that was now far distant; almost in one day the charm was broken, without any real strife or true effort, without inward struggles; he hadabstained from seeing her, and now when she roused his memory again shewas no more in fact than a recollection odious and sweet. 

"After all, " thought Durtal, as he cut up his beefsteak, "I wonder whatshe thinks of me; she must certainly suppose me dead or lost; happily Ihave never met her, and she does not know my address. 

"Well, " he went on, "there is no use in stirring the mud, it will betime to cleanse it when I am at La Trappe, " and he shuddered, for theidea of the confessor again took root in him, and he was obliged to tellhimself for the twentieth time that the expected never happens, and todeclare that he should find some good fellow of a monk who would listento him; then he was afraid again, putting things at their worst, andfancying himself turned out, like a mangy dog. 

He finished his breakfast, and went to St. Severin; there the crisisdeclared itself, the overcharged soul gave way, struck down by acongestion of sadness. 

He lay on a chair in such a state of depression that he could think nomore, he remained inert without the power of suffering, till little bylittle the soul, recovered from its torpor, came to itself in a flood oftears. 

These tears gave him solace; he wept over his lot, thought himself sounhappy, so worthy of pity, that he hoped still more for help, yet hedare not address himself to Christ, whom he thought less accessible, buthe spoke in low tones to the Virgin, murmuring that prayer in whichSaint Bernard reminds the Mother of Christ that never in human memorywas it heard that she abandoned any of those who sought her aid. 

He left St. Severin, consoled and more resolved, and, when once at home, was taken up with preparations for departure. Afraid that he would findnothing he wanted down there, he determined to stuff his portmanteaufull; he crammed into the corners sugar, packets of chocolate, that hemight try to deceive if needful the anguish of a fasting stomach, tooktowels thinking there would be few at La Trappe, prepared a stock oftobacco and matches; then besides books, paper, pencils, ink, packets ofantipyrine, a phial of laudanum, which he wrapped in handkerchiefs andwedged into his slippers. 

When he had strapped his portmanteau, he said to himself, looking at theclock: "To-morrow at this time I shall be jolting in a cab, and myseclusion will be near at hand; never mind, I shall do well, inanticipation of bodily ailment, to ask for the confessor as soon as Iget there, and suppose that turns out badly, I shall have time to makearrangements and take the train back at once. 

"All the same this will not prevent my having a wretched moment thisevening when I enter Notre Dame des Victoires, " but his anxieties andemotions vanished when the hour of Benediction came. He was seized bythe giddy infection of the church, and he wrapped, steeped, and losthimself in the prayer which arose from all those souls, in the chantwhich went up from every mouth, and when the monstrance was broughtforward to make its sign in the air, he felt a vast peace descend uponhim. 

At evening as he undressed he sighed: "To-morrow I shall lie down in acell, amazing when I think of it! I should have considered anyone mad, who, a few years ago, had prophesied that I should take refuge in aTrappist monastery; yet now I am going there of my own accord, and yetno, I am going driven by an unknown power, I am going as a whipped cur. 

"After all, what a symptom of the time it is! Society must indeed beunclean, if God has no longer the right to be hard, and is reduced topick up what He finds, and to content Himself with gathering to Himselfpeople like me!"

SECOND PART. 

CHAPTER I. 

Durtal awoke, gay and brisk, astonished at not hearing himself groan, when the moment had come in which he should set off for La Trappe; hewas wonderfully reassured. He tried to recollect himself, and to pray, but he felt his thoughts more scattered and wandering than usual; heremained indifferent and unmoved. Surprised at this result, he tried toexamine himself, and touched the void; he was slack that morning, in oneof those sudden dispositions in which a man becomes a child again, incapable of attention, in which the wrong side of things disappears, and everything distracts. 

He dressed hastily, got into a cab, was too early at the station; andthere experienced a perfectly childish attack of vanity. Looking at thepeople who hurried through the waiting rooms, thronged the ticketoffices, or resignedly followed their luggage, he was not far fromadmiring himself. "If these travellers who think only of their pleasuresor their business, knew where I am going, " he thought. 

Then he reproached himself for the stupidity of these reflections, andas soon as he was settled in his compartment, in which he chanced to bealone, he lighted a cigarette, saying to himself, "Let us profit atleast by the time there is still for smoking, " and he began to wander, to dream about the position of the monastery, and rove about theneighbourhood of La Trappe. 

He remembered that a review had recently estimated the number of nunsand monks in France at two hundred thousand. 

"Two hundred thousand persons, who, in such an epoch, have understoodthe wickedness of the struggle for life, the filth of sexual relations, the horror of lyings-in, those are they who save the honour of thecountry, " he thought. 

Then, passing at a bound from cloistered souls to the treatises he hadput in his portmanteau, he went on: "It is, all the same, curious howcompletely the temperament of French art rebels against Mysticism!

"All exalted writers are foreigners. Saint Denys the Areopagite was aGreek; Eckhart, Tauler, Suso, Sister Emmerich, were Germans; Ruysbröckcame from Flanders; Saint Teresa, Saint John of the Cross, Saint Maried'Agreda, were Spaniards; Father Faber was English; Saint Bonaventure, Angela of Foligno, Magdalen of Pazzi, Catherine of Genoa, Jacopo deVoragine, were Italians.... 

"Ah!" he said, struck by the last name he had cited, "I ought to havebrought his Golden Legend in my bag; how was it I did not remember it, for that book is, in fact, the very crowning work of the Middle Ages, the stimulant for hours rendered languid by the prolonged uneasiness offasting, the simple aid of pious vigils? For the most incredulous soulsof our time, the Golden Legend at least still seems like one of thosepure parchments, on which simple illuminators painted the faces ofsaints with gum water, or white of egg on golden backgrounds. Jacopo deVoragine is the Jehan Fouquet, the André Beaunevue, of literaryminiature, of mystic prose!

"It is quite absurd to have forgotten that book, for it would have mademe pass precious days, like those of old, in La Trappe. 

"Yes, it is strange, " he thought, returning on his thoughts, and comingback to his first idea; "France can count religious authors, more orless celebrated, but very few mystical writers, properly so-called, andit is just the same also in painting. The true Early Masters areFlemish, German or Italian, none are French, for our Burgundian Schooldescended from the Flemish. 

"No, it cannot be denied, the genius of our race cannot easily followand explain how God acts when He works in the central depths of thesoul, which is the ovary of thought, the very source of conception; itis refractory at explaining, by the expressive power of words, the crashor the silence of grace; bursting forth in the domain which is wasted bysin, it is inapt at extracting from that secret world, works ofpsychology like those of Saint Teresa and Saint John of the Cross, worksof art, like those of Voragine or Sister Emmerich. 

"Besides that our field is scarcely arable, and our soil harsh, whereshall we now find the labourer who sows and harrows it, who prepares noteven a mystical harvest, but even any spiritual fruit, capable ofassuaging the hunger of the few who stray and are lost, and fall frominanition in the icy desert of our time?

"He who should be the cultivator of that land, the farmer of souls, thepriest, has not strength to clear the ground. 

"The seminary has made him arbitrary and puerile, life outside has madehim lukewarm. Therefore it seems that God has withdrawn Himself fromhim, and the proof of this is that He has taken away all ability fromthe priesthood. There are no priests now who have talent, either in thepulpit or in books; the laity have inherited that grace which was socommon in the Church of the Middle Ages. Another example proves it stillmore, priests make so few conversions. In these days the being whopleases Heaven does without them, the Saviour Himself strikes him down, handles him, works directly on him. 

"The ignorance of the clergy, their want of education, theirunintelligence of their surroundings, their dislike for Mysticism, theirincomprehension of art, have taken away all their influence on thearistocracy of souls. Their only action is now on the childish brains ofbigots and pretenders; and this is no doubt providential; it is betterso, for if the priest became the master, if he succeeded in raising andvivifying the wearisome tribe he manages, it would be like a waterspoutof clerical stupidity beating down on a country, would be the end of allliterature and all art in France. 

"To save the Church there remains the monk, whom the priest detests, forthe life of the cloister is a constant reproach to his own existence, "continued Durtal; "always supposing that my illusions are not againdestroyed when I see a monastery ... But no, I am lucky; I havediscovered in Paris one of those few abbés who is neither indifferentnor a pedant; why should I not, in an abbey, come into contact withauthentic monks?"

He lighted a cigarette, and looked at the landscape from the carriagewindow; the train was passing through fields in front of which thetelegraph wires danced in puffs of steam; the landscape was flat anduninteresting. Durtal fell back sulkily in his corner. 

"The arrival at the convent disturbs me, " he murmured; "since there areno useless words to proffer, I shall confine myself to giving his letterto the Father Guestmaster; ah! and then all will arrange itself. "

He felt, in fact, a perfect calm, and was astonished at not finding inhimself any disgust or fear, at being almost in high spirits: "Well, mygood priest was right in declaring that I was creating monsters inadvance;" and he thought of the Abbé Gévresin, was surprised that longas he had visited him, he knew nothing whatever of his antecedents, thathe was no more intimate with him than on the very first day; "In fact, it only rested with me to question him discreetly, but the idea neverentered my head: it is true that our intercourse has been strictlylimited to matters of religion and art; this perpetual reserve does notcreate very thrilling friendships, but it institutes a sort of Jansenismof the affections which is not without charm. 

"In any case that ecclesiastic is a holy man; he has not even thatmanner at once caressing and reserved of other priests. Apart fromcertain gestures, his habit of rolling his arms in his cincture, ofwrapping his hands in his sleeves, of liking to walk backwards when inconversation; apart from his innocent mania of interlarding his phraseswith Latin, he does not recall either the attitude or the unfashionablespeech of his brethren. He loves mysticism and plain song; he isexceptional, and therefore he must have been also carefully chosen forme in heaven. 

"Ah well! we must be getting near, " he sighed, looking at his watch, "Iam beginning to feel hungry; come, that is all right, we shall be atSaint Landry in a quarter of an hour. "

He strummed on the windows of the carriage, saw the fields and woods flypast, smoked a cigarette or two, took his bag from the rack, at lastarrived at the station and got out. 

Close to the tiny station he recognized the inn of which the abbé hadtold him. He found a good woman in the kitchen who said, "All right, sir, sit down, they will put the horse to while you breakfast. "

He fed himself on uneatable things, they brought him a calf's headforgotten in a tub, some cutlets that were high, vegetables blackenedwith gravy from the stove. 

In his present mood he was amused at this infamous meal, fell back upona thin wine which rasped his throat, and resignedly drank coffee whichleft a sediment of peat at the bottom of the cup. 

Then he climbed into a jolting car driven by a young man, and the horsewent off at a smart pace through the village and into the country. 

On the way he asked the driver for some information about La Trappe, butthe peasant knew nothing. "I often go there, " he said, "but never enter, the carriage stays at the gate, so you see I can tell you nothing. "

They went for an hour rapidly through the lanes, and the peasant saluteda roadmaker with his whip, and said to Durtal, "They say that the eminets eat their bellies. "

And as Durtal asked what he meant, "They are idle dogs, they lie all the summer on their bellies in theshade. "

And he said no more. 

Durtal thought of nothing; he digested and smoked, dizzy with therumbling of the carriage. 

At the end of another hour they came into the heart of the forest. 

"Are we near?"

"Oh, not yet!"

"Can we see La Trappe from a distance?"

"Oh no, you must have your nose just over it to see it, it is quite in abottom, at the end of a lane, like that, " said the peasant, pointing toa grassy lane into which they turned. 

"There is a fellow coming from the place, " he said, pointing out avagabond, who was crossing the copse at a great pace. 

And he explained to Durtal that every beggar had a right to food andeven to lodging at La Trappe; they gave them the ordinary fare of thecommunity in a room close to the brother porter's lodge, but did not letthem into the convent. 

When Durtal asked him the opinion which the villagers round about had ofthe monks, the peasant was evidently afraid of compromising himself, forhe answered, "Some say nothing about them. "

Durtal began to be rather weary, when suddenly as they turned out of alane, he saw an immense building below him. 

"There is La Trappe!" said the peasant, gathering his reins for thedescent. 

From the height where he was, Durtal looked over the roofs, and saw alarge garden, with thickets, and in front of them a formidable crucifix. 

Then the vision disappeared, the carriage again went through the wood, descending by zig-zag roads where the foliage intercepted the view. 

They came at last, by long circuits, to an open place, at the end ofwhich rose a wall with a large gate in the middle. The carriage stopped. 

"You have only to ring, " said the peasant, showing Durtal an iron chainalong the wall; and he added, "Shall I come for you again to-morrow?"

"No. "

"Then you remain here?" and the peasant looked at him with astonishment, turned about, and drove up the hill. 

Durtal remained as one crushed, his portmanteau at his feet, before thedoor; his heart beat violently; all his assurance, all his enthusiasm, had vanished, and he stammered: "What will happen to me within?"

And with a swift feeling of dread, there passed before him the terriblelife of the Trappists; the body ill-nourished, exhausted from want ofsleep, prostrate for hours on the pavement; the soul trembling, squeezedlike a sponge in the hand, drilled, examined, ransacked even to itssmallest folds; and at the end of its failure of an existence, thrownlike a wreck against this rude rock, into the silence of a prison, andthe dreadful stillness of the tomb!

"My God, my God, have pity upon me!" said he, as he wiped his brow. 

Mechanically he looked around, as if he expected some help; the roadswere deserted and the woods were empty; no sound was heard in thecountry, or in the monastery. 

"At any rate I must make up my mind to ring;" and, his limbs sinkingunder him, he pulled the chain. 

The sound of the bell, hard, rusty, grumbling, sounded on the other sideof the wall. 

"Get up and don't be a fool, " he said to himself, as he heard theclatter of a pair of sabots behind the door. 

This opened, and a very old monk, clad in the brown cloth of theCapuchins, looked at him inquiringly. 

"I come to make a retreat, and I wish to see Father Etienne. "

The monk bowed, took up the portmanteau, and made a sign to Durtal tofollow him. He went with bent head and short steps across an orchard. They reached a grating, passed on the right of the vast building a sortof dilapidated chateau, flanked by two wings advancing on a court. 

The brother entered the wing close to the grating. Durtal followed himalong a corridor into which several grey doors opened; on one of thesehe read the word "Auditorium. " The Trappist stopped before it, liftedthe wooden latch, ushered Durtal into the room, and after some minuteshe heard repeated calls on the bell. 

Durtal sat down and looked at this gloomy chamber, for the window washalf closed by shutters. There was little furniture; the most importanta dining-table with an old cover; in the corner, a "prie-Dieu" abovewhich was nailed a figure of Saint Antony of Padua rocking the infantJesus in his arms; a large crucifix on the other wall, and here andthere were placed two high-backed chairs and four ordinary chairs. 

Durtal took from his pocket-book the letter of introduction to thefather. "What sort of reception will he give me?" he asked himself; "heat any rate can speak; well, we shall soon see, " he said, as he heardsteps. 

A monk in white with a black scapular whose two ends fell, one on hisshoulders, the other on his breast, appeared; he was young and smiling. 

He read the letter, then he took Durtal's hand, and led him in silentastonishment across the court to the other wing of the building, openeda door, dipped his finger in a holy-water stoup, and offered it to him. 

They were in a chapel. The monk invited Durtal by a sign to kneel on astep before the altar, and he prayed in a low voice; he then rose, returned slowly to the threshold, offered Durtal holy water again, stillwithout opening his lips, and leading him by the hand they went the waythey came to the Auditorium. 

There, he inquired after the health of the Abbé Gévresin, seized theportmanteau, and mounted an immense staircase falling into ruin. At thetop of this staircase, which had only one story, there extended a vastlanding bounded at each of its extremities by a door. 

Father Etienne entered that on the right, crossed a broad vestibule, andled Durtal into a room, which a ticket printed in large letters placedunder the invocation of St. Benedict, and said, "I am sorry, sir, to beonly able to put at your disposal this room, which is not verycomfortable. "

"But it will do very well, " said Durtal, "and the view is charming, " hecontinued, approaching the window. 

"At least you will be in good air, " said the monk, opening the casement. 

Below stretched the orchard through which Durtal had passed under theconduct of the brother porter. An enclosure full of apple trees stuntedand clipped, silvered by lichens, and gilt by moss; then beyond themonastery, and above the walls, rose fields of clover intersected by agreat white road, extending to the horizon, which was notched by thefoliage of trees. 

"You will see, sir, " Father Etienne went on, "if you need anything inthis cell, and tell me quite simply, will you not? for otherwise weshould heap up regret for both of us, for you who have only to ask forwhat might be useful to you, for me who should only discover it laterand be sorry for my forgetfulness. "

Durtal looked at him reassured by this frank greeting; he was a youngpriest, about thirty years old. His face bright, and finely cut, wasstreaked with red fibres on the cheeks; this monk wore a beard, andround his shaven head was a crown of brown hair. He spoke somewhatrapidly, and smiled, with his hands pushed into the large leathern beltround his waist. "I will come back directly, for I have some importantwork to finish, " he said; "try to make yourself at home as much aspossible, and if you have time glance over the rule which you have tofollow in this monastery--it is written on one of these cards on thetable; we will talk about it after you have mastered it, if you like. "

And he left Durtal alone. 

He soon made an inventory of the room; it was very high and extremelynarrow like a gun-barrel, the door was at one end, the window at theother. 

At the bottom, in a corner, near the casement, was a little iron bed, and a small round table in chestnut wood. At the foot of the bed whichstood along the wall was a prie-Dieu in faded rep, upon which was acrucifix, and a branch of dried fir below it; on the same side was atable of white wood covered with a towel, on which were placed an ewer, a basin, and a glass. On the opposite wall was a wardrobe, and by thefireplace, on the mantelpiece of which a crucifix was placed, was atable opposite the bed near the window; three straw chairs completed thefurniture of this room. "I shall never have water enough to wash in, "thought Durtal, gauging the miniature jug, which held about a pint;"since Father Etienne shows himself so obliging, I must ask him for alarger ration. " He unpacked his portmanteau, undressed, put on flannelinstead of his starched shirt, arranged his toilet things on thewashing-stand, folded his linen in the wardrobe; then sat down, lookedaround the cell, and thought it sufficiently comfortable, and above allvery clean. He then went towards the table on which were laid a ream ofruled paper, an inkstand, and some pens; he was grateful for thisattention of the monk, who knew no doubt by the Abbé Gévresin's letterthat his business was writing, opened two volumes bound in leather andshut them again. The one was "The Introduction to the Devout Life, " bySaint Francis de Sales, the other was "Manresa, " or "The SpiritualExercises" of Saint Ignatius of Loyola, and he arranged his own books onthe table. 

Then he took up, just as it came, one of the cards spread on the tableand read:--

 "Exercises of the Community for ordinary days--from Easter to the Invention of the Cross in September. 

 Rise. 2. Prime and Mass. 5. 15. Work after the Chapter. End of work and leisure time. 9. Sext. 11. Angelus and Dinner. 11. 30. Siesta after Dinner. End of Siesta. 1. 30. None and work, five minutes after waking. End of work and leisure. 4. 30. Vespers followed by prayer. 5. 15. Supper and leisure. 6. Compline. 7. 25. Retire to rest. 8. "

He turned the card, and on the other side was a new horary, entitled:--

 "Winter Exercises, from the Invention of the Cross in September to Easter. "

The hour of rising was the same, but bed-time was an hour earlier;dinner was changed from 11. 30 to 2; siesta and supper at 6 o'clock weresuppressed; the canonical hours were the same, except vespers andcompline, which were changed from 5. 15 and 7. 25 to 4. 30 and 6. 15. 

"It is not pleasant to drag oneself from bed in the middle of thenight, " sighed Durtal, "but I am inclined to think that the Retreatantsare not subject to this rule of wakefulness, " and he took up anothercard. "This must be the one intended for me, " he said, reading the headof the card:--

Rules of Retreat from Easter to the Invention of the Cross in September. 

Let us look at these rules rather more closely. 

He examined the two tables, brought together, one for the morning, andone for the evening. 

 MORNING. 

 4. Rise at the Angelus bell. 4. 30. Prayer and Meditation. 5. 15. Prime and Mass. 6-7. Examination of Conscience. 7. Breakfast. 7. 30. Way of the Cross. 8. Sext and None. 8. 30. Second Meditation. 9. Spiritual Reading. 11. Adoration and Examination. Tierce. 11. 30. Angelus. Dinner. Recreation. 12. 15. Siesta. Absolute Silence. 

 EVENING. 

 1. 30. End of Siesta. Rosary. 2. Vespers and Compline. 3. Third Meditation. 3. 15. Spiritual Reading. 4. 15. Matins and Lauds. 5. 15. Reflections. Choir Vespers. 5. 30. Examination and Prayer. 6. Supper and Recreation. 7. Litanies. Absolute Silence. 7. 15. Assist at Compline. 7. 30. Salve Regina. Angelus. 7. 45. Private Examination. Retire to rest. 

"This at any rate is more practical--four o'clock in the morning is analmost possible hour, but I do not understand it, the canonical hours onthis tablet do not agree with those of the monks, and then why thesedouble Vespers and Compline? Lastly, these little points in which youare invited to meditate so many minutes, to read so many more, scarcelysuit me. My mind is scarcely malleable enough to run in thosechannels--it is true that after all I am free to do as I please, for noone can verify what tricks I may play, can know, for instance, if Imeditate.... 

"Ah, here is again a regulation at the back, " he went on, as he turnedthe card, "the regulation for September, I need not trouble myself aboutit, it differs, moreover, little from the other; but here is apostscript which concerns both horaries. "

 NOTE. 

 1. Those who are not bound to say the Breviary will say the Little Office of the Blessed Virgin. 

 2. The Retreatants are requested to make their Confessions at an early date, in order to have their mind more free for meditation. 

 3. After each meditation an analogous chapter of the Imitation must be read. 

 4. The best time for confessions and the Way of the Cross is from 6-9 in the morning, 2-5 in the afternoon, and in summer from 9 in the morning till 5 in the afternoon. 

 5. To read the table of notices. 

 6. It is well to be punctual at meals to keep no one waiting. 

 7. The Father Guestmaster alone is charged with providing for the wants of guests. 

 8. Guests may ask for books for the retreat, if they have none themselves. 

Confession! He saw this word only in the whole series of rules. He mustat once have recourse to it. He felt a cold shiver down his back; andknew that he must speak to Father Etienne about it as soon as hereturned. 

He had not long to wrestle with himself, for the monk entered almost atonce and said, "Have you noticed anything you need, and the presence of which may beuseful to you?"

"No, Father; yet if you could let me have a little more water. "

"Nothing is easier; I will send you up a large pitcher every morning. "

"Thank you ... See, I have been studying the rules. "

"I will at once put you at ease, " said the monk. "You are compelled tonothing but the strictest punctuality. You must follow the canonicaloffices to the letter. As to the exercises marked on the card, they arenot of obligation; they may be useful, as they are laid down, for peoplewho are very young and devoid of all initiative, but, as I think atleast, they somewhat hamper others, and as a general rule we do nottrouble the retreatants here, we let solitude act on them; it belongs toyourself to discriminate and distinguish the best mode of occupying yourtime holily. Therefore I will not impose on you any of the reading laiddown on this card, and only take leave to get you to say the LittleOffice of the Blessed Virgin. Have you it?"

"Here it is, " said Durtal, holding out a bound book. 

"Your volume is charming, " said Father Etienne, as he turned over thepages exquisitely printed in red and black. He paused at one of them, and read aloud the third lesson of Matins. 

"Is it not fine?" he cried. A sudden joy sprang up in his face; his eyesgrew bright, his hands trembled on the cover. "Yes, " he said, closingit, "read this office, here especially, for you know our true patroness, the true Abbot of the Trappists, is the Blessed Virgin!"

After a silence he continued: "I have fixed a week as the duration ofyour retreat, in the letter I sent to the Abbé Gévresin, but I need notsay that if you are not too weary here, you can stay as long as seemsgood to you. "

"I hope to be able to prolong my stay among you, but this must dependupon the way in which my body stands the struggle; my stomach issomewhat weak, and I am not without some fear; I shall, therefore, bemuch obliged to you if you will let me see the confessor as soon aspossible. "

"Good; you shall see him to-morrow. I will tell you the time thisevening, after compline. As for the food, if you think it insufficient, I will see that you have an extra egg, but there ceases the discretion Ican exercise, for the rule is precise, no fish, no flesh--vegetables, and I am bound to admit they are not first rate. 

"But you shall judge, and, indeed, as it is just upon supper-time, Iwill show you the room where you will dine in company with M. Bruno. "

And as they descended the staircase, the monk went on: "M. Bruno is aperson who has renounced the world, and, without having taken the vows, lives enclosed. He is what our rule calls an oblate, he is a holy andlearned man, whom you will certainly like; you can talk with him duringthe meal. "

"Ah!" said Durtal, "and before and after I must keep silence?"

"Yes, unless you have anything to ask, in which case I shall be alwaysat your service, ready to answer you. As for that question of silence, as for those of the hours of rising and going to bed, and the offices, the rule allows no modification, it must be observed to the letter. "

"Good, " said Durtal, a little taken aback by the decided tone of theFather, "but I saw on my card a note directing me to consult a table ofregulations, and I have not that table. "

"It hangs on the wall of the staircase, near your room; you can read itwhen your head is rested to-morrow. Will you go in?" he said, opening adoor in the lower corridor, just opposite that of the auditorium. 

Durtal bowed to an old gentleman who came to meet him; the monkintroduced them and vanished. 

The dishes were on the table, two poached eggs, a bowl of rice, anotherof French beans, and a pot of honey. 

M. Bruno said grace, and proceeded to help Durtal. 

He gave him an egg. 

"This is a poor supper for a Parisian, " he said, with a smile. 

"Ah, as long as there is an egg and wine it is bearable. I was afraid, Iconfess, that my only drink would be cold water. "

They talked as friends. 

The man was pleasant, and distinguished, with ascetic features, but witha bright smile, lighting up a grave face, yellow and wrinkled. 

He lent himself with perfect good grace to Durtal's inquiries, and toldhim, that after a tempestuous life, he felt that Grace had touched him, and he had retired from the world to expiate by years of austerities andsilence his own sins and those of others. 

"And you have never grown tired of being here?"

"Never, during the five years that I have spent in this cloister, time, cut up as it is at La Trappe, seems short. "

"You are present at all the exercises of the Community?"

"Yes; I only replace manual labour by meditation in my cell; my positionas oblate, however, dispenses me, if I so wish, from getting up at twoo'clock to follow the night office, but it is a great joy to me torecite the magnificent Benedictine Psalter before daybreak--but you arelistening to me, and eat nothing. Let me give you a little more rice. "

"No, thank you, but I will take, if you will allow me, a spoonful ofhoney. 

"The food is not bad, " he said, "but I do not quite understand the samestrange and identical taste in all the dishes; it smells, how shall Iexpress it? like burnt fat or suet. "

"That is the warm oil with which the vegetables are dressed, you willsoon grow accustomed to it, in a couple of days you will cease to noticeit. "

"But in what consists, precisely, the part of an oblate?"

"His life is less austere, and more contemplative than that of a monk;he may travel if he will, and though he is not bound by vows, he sharesin all the spiritual advantages of the order. 

"In old times the rule admitted those whom it styled 'familiars. '

"Those were oblates who received the tonsure, wore a distinct costume, and pronounced the three greater vows; they led in fact a mitigatedlife, half layman, half monk. This rule, which still exists among thetrue Benedictines, has disappeared among the Trappists since the year1293, the date at which it was suppressed by the Chapter General. 

"At the present time, in the Cistercian abbeys are only the fathers, thelay brothers, the oblates, when there are any, and the peasants employedin field labour. "

"The lay brothers, I suppose, are those whose heads are completelyshaven, and who are clothed in a brown habit, like the monk who openedthe door to me?"

"Yes; they do not sing office, and have only manual tasks. "

"By the way, the rule for retreat which I read in my room does not seemclear. As far as I recall it, it doubles certain offices, places Matinsat four in the afternoon, and Vespers at two; in any case the horary isnot the same as that of the Trappists; how am I to understand andreconcile them?"

"You have only to take into consideration the exercises set out on yourcard; Father Etienne must, I think, have said so; that mould was onlymade for people who cannot occupy and guide themselves. That explains toyou how, to prevent them from becoming idle, the priests' breviary hasbeen in some degree taken to pieces, and their time has beendistributed in small slices, so that, for instance, they may be obligedto recite the psalms for Matins at hours when there is no psalm. "

Dinner was over; M. Bruno said grace, and said to Durtal, "You have twenty minutes free from now to Compline; you can makeacquaintance with the garden and woods. " He bowed politely and went out. 

"I can smoke a cigarette, " thought Durtal, when he was alone. He tookhis hat and left the room. Night was coming on. He passed through thegreat court, skirted a small building surmounted by a longchimney-stack, discovered by the smell that it was a chocolate factory, and entered an avenue of trees. 

The sky was so obscure that he could scarcely see the group of trees heentered, and not seeing anyone he rolled his cigarettes, and smoked themslowly, with enjoyment, consulting his watch from time to time by hiscigar lights. 

He was astonished at the silence of the monastery; not a sound, howeverhushed, however distant, save now and then a gentle rustle of boughs; hewent to the side whence the noise came, and saw a piece of water, onwhich a swan was sailing, which came towards him. 

He saw its white plumage oscillate against the darkness which itdisplaced with a splash, when a bell sounded with slow strokes; "Ah, "said he, looking again at his watch, "that is the hour of Compline. "

He went to the chapel, which was still empty; and he took occasion ofthe solitude to examine it at his ease. 

It was in the form of a truncated cross, a cross without a foot, roundedat the summit, holding out two square arms, with a door at either end. 

The upper part of the cross, below a cupola painted blue, formed alittle circular apse, round which was a circle of stalls placed backagainst the wall; in the middle rose a great altar of white marble, surmounted by wooden chandeliers, flanked on the left and right bycandelabra also of wood, placed on marble shafts. 

The lower part of the altar was hollow, and closed in front by a glass, behind which appeared a shrine in Gothic style, which reflected in itscopper gilt mirror the light of the lamps. 

The apse opened into a large porch, with three steps in front, on thearms of the cross, which were prolonged into a kind of vestibule servingat once as nave and side aisles to this stumpy church. 

The hollowed arms, at their extremities near the doors, held two verysmall chapels set back in niches painted blue, like the cupola, containing above two stone altars without ornament, two mediocrestatues, one of Saint Joseph, the other of Christ. 

Lastly, a fourth altar, dedicated to the Virgin, was situated in thisvestibule opposite the steps leading to the apse, opposite therefore tothe high altar. It was relieved against a window whose lightsrepresented Saint Bernard in white on one hand, and Saint Benedict inblack on the other, and it appeared to recede into the church, becauseof the two ranges of seats which stood on the left and right before thetwo other little chapels, leaving only room necessary to pass along thevestibule, or to go in a straight line from this altar of the Virgin inthe apse, to the high altar. 

"This sanctuary is alarmingly ugly, " said Durtal, who had sat down on abench in front of the statue of Saint Joseph. "To judge by the fewsubjects carved along the walls, this edifice dates from the time ofLouis XVI. , an abominable date for a church. "

He was disturbed in these thoughts by the sound of bells, and at thesame time all the doors were opened; one situated in the apse itself, onthe left of the altar, gave passage to about half a score monks, wrappedin great white cowls, who spread out into the choir, and occupied thestalls on either side. 

Then, by the two doors of the vestibule, came a crowd of brown monks, who knelt at the benches on the two sides of Our Lady's altar. 

Durtal had some of them near him; but they bowed their heads, and joinedtheir hands, he dared not observe them; moreover, the vestibule hadbecome almost dark, the light was concentrated in the choir, where thelamps were kindled. 

He could make out the faces of the white monks in their stalls in thepart of the apse he could see, and among them he recognized FatherEtienne on his knees near a short monk; but another at the end of thestalls near the porch, almost opposite the altar, and in full light, attracted him. 

He was tall and strong, and looked like an Arab in his white burnous. Durtal could only see him in profile, and he distinguished a long greybeard, a shaven skull, surrounded by the monastic crown, a highforehead, and a nose like an eagle's beak. He had a grand appearance, with his imperious features, and his fine figure as it swayed under thecowl. 

"That is probably the abbot of La Trappe, " thought Durtal, and he feltcertain when this monk struck a little bell hidden under the desk beforehim, and directed the office. 

All the monks bowed to the altar; the abbot recited the opening prayers, then there was a pause, and, from the other side of the apse, whichDurtal could not see, rose the frail voice of an old man, a voice whichhad returned to the clear tones of childhood, but was just a littlecracked, growing higher as it declaimed the antiphon, "Deus in adjutorium meum intende. "

And the other side of the choir, that on which were Father Etienne andthe abbot, answered, scanning the syllables very slowly, with voices ofbass pitch, --

"Domine ad adjuvandum me festina. "

And all bowed their heads over the folios placed before them, and tookup the words, --

"Gloria Patri et Filio et Spiritui Sancto. "

And they lifted their heads while the other part of the Fatherspronounced the response, "Sicut erat in principio, etc. "

The office began. 

It was not chanted but declaimed, now rapid and now slow. The side ofthe choir which Durtal saw made all the vowels sharp and short letters;the other, on the contrary, altered them all into long letters andseemed to cap all the Os with a circumflex accent. It might be said thatone side had the pronunciation of the South, the other that of theNorth; thus chanted, the office became strange, and ended by rockinglike an incantation, and soothing the soul which fell asleep in therolling of the verses, interrupted by the recurrent doxology like arefrain after the last verse of each of the psalms. 

"Ah well, I cannot understand it, " thought Durtal, who had his Complineat his fingers' ends, "they are not singing the Roman office at all. "

The fact is that one of the psalms was wanting. He caught indeed, at onemoment, the hymn of Saint Ambrose, the "Te lucis ante terminum, " sung toa simple and rugged tune of the old plain chant, and yet the last stanzawas not the same; but he lost himself afresh, and waited for the "ShortLessons" and the "Nunc Dimittis" which never came. 

"Yet Compline does not vary like Vespers, " he thought, "I must askFather Etienne the meaning of this to-morrow. "

Then his reflections were disturbed by a young white monk, who passedhim, genuflected to the altar, and lighted two tapers. 

Suddenly all rose, and with a great shout, the "Salve Regina" shook thearches. 

Durtal was affected as he listened to this admirable chant, which hadnothing in common with that which is bellowed at Paris in the churches. This was at once flexible and ardent, sustained by such suppliantadoration, that it seemed to concentrate in itself alone, the immemorialhope of humanity, and its eternal lamentation. 

Chanted without accompaniment, unsustained by the organ, by voicesindifferent to themselves and blending in one only, masculine and deep, it rose with quiet boldness, sprang up with irresistible flight towardsOur Lady, then made, as it were, a return upon itself, and itsconfidence was lessened; it advanced more tremblingly, but so different, so humble, that it felt itself forgiven, and dared then in passionateappeals to demand the undeserved pleasures of heaven. 

It was the absolute triumph of the neumes, those repetitions of notes onthe same syllable, the same word, which the Church invented to paint theexcess of that interior joy or sorrow which words cannot render; it wasa rush, a going forth of the soul, escaping in the passionate voices, breathed forth by the bodies of the monks as they stood and trembled. 

Durtal followed in his prayer-book this work with so short a text, solong a chant; and as he listened to, and read it with recollection, thismagnificent prayer seemed to decompose as a whole, and to representthree different states of the soul, to exhibit the triple phase ofhumanity, during its youth, its maturity, and its decline; it was, in aword, an essential summary of prayer for all ages. 

First, there was the canticle of exultation, the joyous welcome of abeing yet little, stammering forth respectful caresses, petting withgentle words, and fondness of a child who seeks to coax his mother--thisis the "Salve Regina, Mater misericordiĉ, vita, dulcedo et spes nostra, salve. " Then the soul so candid, so simply happy, has grown, and knowingthe wilful failings of thought, the repeated loss through sin, joins herhands, and asks, sobbing, for help. She adores no longer with a smile, but with tears; it is "Ad te clamamus, exsules filii Hevae; ad tesuspiramus, gementes et flentes in hac lachrymarum valle. " At last oldage comes; the soul lies, tormented by the memory of counsels neglected, by regret for lost graces; and having become weaker, and more full offears, is alarmed before her deliverance, before the destruction of thatprison of the flesh which she feels at hand, and then she thinks of theeternal death of those whom the Judge condemns. On her knees sheimplores the Advocatress of earth, the Consultrix of heaven; it is the"Eia ergo Advocata nostra; illos tuos misericordes oculos ad nosconverte; et Jesum, benedictum fructum ventris tui, nobis post hocexilium ostende. "

And to that essence of prayer composed by Peter of Compostella orHermann Contract, Saint Bernard, in an excess of hyperdulia, added thethree invocations at the end, "O clemens, O pia, O dulcis Virgo Maria, "sealing the inimitable prose with a triple seal, by those three cries oflove which recall the hymn to the affectionate adoration of itsbeginning. 

"This is unprecedented, " thought Durtal, as the Trappists chanted thesesweet and eager appeals; the neumes were prolonged on the Os, whichpassed through all the colours of the soul, through the whole registerof sound; and these interjections summed up again, in the series ofnotes which clothed them, the inventory of the human soul, which nowrecapitulated the whole body of the hymn. 

And suddenly at the word "Maria, " at the glorious cry of that name, thechant fell, the tapers were extinguished, the monks fell on their knees, a silence like death came upon the chapel. The bells rang slowly, andthe Angelus unfolded under the arches the separated petals of its clearsounds. 

All, now prostrate, their faces buried in their hands, were praying, andthis lasted long; then the sound of the little hand-bell was heard, everyone rose, genuflected to the altar, and in silent file the monksdisappeared through the door in the apse. 

"Ah! the true creator of plain music, the unknown author who cast intothe brain of man the seed of plain chant, was the Holy Ghost, " saidDurtal, sick and dazzled, with tears in his eyes. 

M. Bruno, whom he had not noticed in the chapel, came and joined him. They crossed the court without speaking, and when they had entered theguest-house, M. Bruno lighted two candles, gave one to Durtal, and saidgravely, "I wish you a good night, sir. "

Durtal went up the staircase behind him. They bowed again on thelanding, and Durtal entered his cell. 

The wind blew under the door, and the room, scarcely lighted by the lowflame of the candle, seemed to him gloomy, the high ceiling vanished inshadow, and rained down darkness. 

Durtal sat down by his bed, discouraged. 

And yet he was thrust forward by one of those impulses it is impossibleto translate into words, in which it seems that the heart swells almostto bursting, and before his inability to get away and fly from self, Durtal ended by becoming a child again, by weeping without definitecause, simply from the need of relieving himself by tears. 

He sank down at the prie-Dieu, expecting he knew not what, which nevercame; then before the crucifix which stretched its arms above him, hebegan to speak to Him, and to say to Him in low tones:

"Father, I have driven the swine from my being, but they have trampledon me, and covered me with mire, and the very stye is in ruins. Havepity on me, for I return from a distant land. Have mercy, O Lord, on theswine-herd without a house. I have entered into Thy house; do not sendme away, be to me a kindly host, wash me. "

"Ah, " he said suddenly, "that reminds me that I have not seen FatherEtienne, who was to tell me the hour at which the confessor wouldreceive me to-morrow; he has no doubt forgotten to ask him; so much thebetter. At any rate it will put it off for a day; my soul is so crampedthat I have indeed need of rest. "

He undressed, sighing: "I must be up at half-past three to be in thechapel at four: I have no time to lose if I wish to sleep. If only Ihave no neuralgia to-morrow, and can wake before dawn!"

CHAPTER II. 

He passed a most terrible night; it was so special, so dreadful, that hedid not remember, in the whole of his existence, to have endured suchanguish, undergone the like fears. 

It was an uninterrupted succession of sudden wakings and of nightmares. 

And these nightmares overpassed the limits of abomination that the mostdangerous madness dreams. They developed themselves in the realm oflust; and they were so special, so new to him, that when he woke Durtalremained trembling, almost crying out. 

It was not at all that involuntary and well known act, that vision whichceases just at the moment when the sleeper clasps an amorous form; itwas as and more complete than in nature, long and accomplished, accompanied by all the preludes, all the details, all the sensations, and the orgasm took place with a singularly painful acuteness, anincredible spasm. 

A strange fact, which seemed to point the difference between this state, and the unconscious uncleanness of night, was, beyond certain episodesand caresses which could only follow each other in reality, but wereunited at the same moment in the dream, the sensation clear and preciseof a being, of a fluid form disappearing, with the sharp sound of apercussion cap, or the crack of a whip close by, on waking. This beingwas felt near him so distinctly, that the sheet, disarranged by the windof the flight, was still in motion, and he looked at the empty place interror. 

"Ah, " thought Durtal, when he had lighted his candle, "this carries meback to the time when I used to visit Madame Chantelouve, and remindsme of the stories of the Succubus. "

He remained sitting up in bed, astonished, and looked with realuneasiness round the cell steeped in shadow. He looked at his watch, itwas only eleven o'clock at night. "God, " he said, "if the nights arealways like this in monasteries!"

He had recourse to bathing with cold water in order to recover himself, opened his window to change the air, and lay down again, thoroughlychilled. 

He hesitated to blow out his candle, uneasy at the darkness which seemedto him inhabited, full of ambushes and threats. He decided at last toextinguish it, and repeated the stanza he had already heard sung thatevening in chapel:

 Procul recedant somnia Et noctium phantasmata, Hostemque nostrum comprime, Ne polluantur corpora. 

He ended by falling asleep and dreamt again of impurity, but he came tohimself in time to break the charm, experiencing again the impression ofa shadow evaporating before he could seize it in the sheets. He lookedat his watch; it was two o'clock. 

"If this goes on, I shall be broken down to-morrow, " he thought, but hesucceeded somehow or other in dozing, and waking every ten minutes towait for three o'clock. 

"If I fall asleep again, I shall not be able to wake at the moment Iwish, " he thought, "suppose I get up. "

He sprang out of bed, dressed, prayed, reduced his thoughts to order. 

Real excesses would have exhausted him less than these sham freaks, butwhat seemed to him especially odious was the want of satisfaction leftby the completed rape of these ghosts. Compared with their greedytricks, the caresses of a woman only diffused a temperate pleasure, andended in a feeble shock, but with this Succuba one remained in a fury athaving clasped only the void, at having been the dupe of a lie, theplaything of an appearance, of which one could not remember the form orthe features. It necessarily brought with it the desire of the flesh, the wish to clasp a real body, and Durtal began to think of Florence;she at least quenched his desires, and did not leave him thus, pantingand feverish, in quest of he knew not what, in an atmosphere where hewas surrounded, spied upon by an unknown whom he could not discern, by aphantom he could not escape. 

Then Durtal shook himself, and would repulse the assault of thesememories. "At any rate I will go and breathe the fresh air, and smoke acigarette; we will see afterwards. "

He descended the staircase, whose walls seemed not to keep their place, and danced in the light of his candle, threaded the corridors, blew outhis light, placed the candlestick near the auditorium, and rushed out. 

It was pitch dark; at the height of the first story a round window inthe wall of the chapel cut a hole through the darkness like a red moon. 

Durtal took a few whiffs of a cigarette, and then made his way to thechapel. He turned the latch of the door gently; the vestibule into whichhe entered was dark, but the apse, though it was empty, was lighted bynumerous lamps. 

He made a step, crossed himself, and fell back, for he had stumbled overa body; and he looked down at his feet. 

He had come upon a battle-field. 

On the ground human forms were lying, in the attitudes of combatantsmowed down by grape shot, some flat on their faces, others on theirknees, some leaning their hands on the ground as if stricken frombehind, others extended with their fingers clenched on their breast, others again holding their heads or stretching out their arms. 

And from this group in their agony rose no groan, no complaint. 

Durtal was stupefied as he looked at this massacre of monks, andsuddenly stopped with open mouth. A shaft of light fell from a lampwhich the Father Sacristan had just placed in the apse, and crossing theporch, it showed a monk on his knees before the altar dedicated to theVirgin. 

He was an old man of more than four-score years; motionless as a statue, his eyes fixed, leaning forward in such an access of adoration, that thefaces in ecstasy in the Early Masters seemed, compared with his, forcedand cold. 

Yet his features were vulgar, his shaven skull, without a crown, tannedby many suns and rains, was brick-coloured, his eye was dim, coveredwith a film by age, his face was wrinkled, shrivelled, stained like anold log, hidden in a thicket of white hair, while his somewhat snub nosemade the general effect of the face singularly common. 

But there went out, not from his eyes, nor his mouth, but fromeverywhere and nowhere, a kind of angelic look which was diffused overhis head, and enveloped all his poor body, bowed in its heap of rags. 

In this old man the soul did not even give herself the trouble to reformand ennoble his features, she contented herself in annihilating themwith her rays; it was, as it were, the nimbus of the old saints not nowremaining round the head, but extending over all the features, pale andalmost invisible, bathing his whole being. 

He saw nothing and heard nothing; monks dragged themselves on theirknees, came to warm themselves, and to take shelter near him, and henever moved, dumb and deaf, so rigid that you might have believed himdead, had not his lower lip stirred now and then, lifting in thismovement his long beard. 

The dawn whitened the windows, and as the darkness was graduallydissipated, the other brethren were visible in turn to Durtal; all thesemen, wounded by divine love, prayed ardently, flashed out beyondthemselves noiselessly before the altar. Some were quite young, on theirknees, with their bodies upright; others, their eyeballs in ecstasy, were leaning back, and seated on their heels; others again were makingthe way of the cross, and were often placed each opposite another faceto face, and they looked without seeing, as with the eyes of the blind. 

And among these lay brethren, some fathers buried in their great whitecowls lay prostrate and kissed the ground. 

"Oh to pray, pray like these monks!" cried Durtal within himself. 

He felt his unhappy soul grow slack within him; in this atmosphere ofsanctity he unbent himself, and sank down on the pavement, humbly askingpardon from Christ, for having soiled by his presence the purity of thisplace. 

He prayed long, unsealing himself for the first time, recognizing hisunworthiness and vileness so that he could not imagine how, in spite ofHis mercy, the Lord could tolerate him in the little circle of Hiselect; he examined himself, saw clearly, and avowed that he was inferiorto the least of these lay brothers who perhaps could not even spell outa book, understood that the culture of the mind was naught and theculture of the soul was all, and little by little, without perceivingit, thinking only of stammering forth acts of gratitude, he disappearedfrom the chapel, his soul borne up by the souls of others, away, awayfrom the world, far from his charnel-house, far from his body. 

In this chapel, the impulse had come at last, the going forth from self, till now refused, was at last permitted; he no longer strove with selfas in the time when he escaped with so great difficulty from hisprison-house, as at St. Severin or Notre Dame des Victoires. 

Then he again realized this chapel, where his animal part had aloneremained, and he looked round him with astonishment; the greater part ofthe brethren had gone, one father remained prostrate before Our Lady'saltar; he quitted it in his turn, and went back to the apse, as theother fathers entered it. 

Durtal looked at them; they were of all sizes and all kinds; one fat andbald, with a long black beard and spectacles, some little fair and puffymen, some very old, bristling with skin like a wild boar, others veryyoung, with a vague air of German dreaminess, with their eyes undertheir glasses; and almost all except the very young had this feature incommon: a large belly, and cheeks with little red streaks. 

Suddenly through the open door in the apse itself appeared the tall monkwho had conducted the office the evening before. He threw back on hischasuble the woollen hood which covered his head, and assisted by twowhite monks went up to the high altar to say mass. 

And it was not one of those masses served as so many are cooked inParis, but a mass slow, meditated, and profound, a mass where the priesttakes long to consecrate, overwhelmed before the altar, and when heelevated the Host no little bell tinkled, but the bells of the monasteryspread abroad their slow peal, brief dull strokes, almost plaintive, while the Trappists disappeared; crouched on all-fours, their headshidden below their desks. 

When the mass ended it was nearly six o'clock. Durtal took the same wayas the evening before, passed before the little chocolate factory, andsaw through the windows the fathers wrapping up the tablets in leadpaper, and in another room a tiny steam engine which a lay brother wasdirecting. 

He reached the walk where he had smoked the cigarettes in the shade. Sogloomy at night, it was now charming with its two rows of aged limeswhich rustled gently while the wind wafted to him their enervatingscent. 

Seated on a bench, he could see at a glance the whole front of theabbey. 

Before it was a long kitchen garden, with here and there some rose treesspread over the blueish basins and large balls of cabbages, and the oldhouse, built in the monumental style of the seventeenth century, extended, solemn and immense, with eighteen windows in a row, and apediment, in the span of which was placed a mighty clock. 

It was roofed with slate, and surmounted by a ring of small bells, andwas reached by a flight of several steps. It reached a height of atleast five stories, though it had in reality only a ground and a firstfloor, but to judge by the unexpected height of the windows, the roomshad to accommodate their ceilings to the vast altitude of the church; onthe whole the building was striking and cold, more apt, since it hadbeen converted into a convent, to shelter the disciples of Jansen, thanthe sons of Saint Bernard. 

The weather was warm that morning; the sun was filtered through themoving sieve of foliage, and the daylight, thus screened, was changed torose colour as it touched the white. Durtal, who was about to read hisprayer-book, saw the pages growing red, and by the law of complementarycolours all the letters printed in black ink grew green. 

He was amused by these details, and with his back to the warmth, hebrightened up in this aromatic breeze, rested in this bath of sunshinefrom his fatigues of the night, when at the end of the walk he saw someof the brothers. They walked in silence, some carrying under their armsgreat round loaves, others holding milk cans, or baskets full of hay andeggs; they passed before him, and bowed respectfully. 

All had a joyous and serious aspect. "Ah, good fellows, " he thought, "for they helped me this morning, it is to them I owe it that I couldkeep silence no longer, and was able to pray, to have at last known thejoy of supplication which at Paris was only a snare for me! to them, andabove all to Our Lady de l'Atre, who had pity on my poor soul. "

He sprang from his bench in an access of joy, went into the lateralwalks, reached the piece of water he had partially seen the eveningbefore; in front of it rose the huge cross he had seen at a distancefrom the carriage, in the wood, before he reached La Trappe. 

It was placed opposite the monastery itself, and turned its back uponthe pond; it bore an eighteenth-century Christ, of natural size, inwhite marble; the pond also took the form of a cross such as is shown onthe greater part of the plans of churches. 

This brown and liquid cross was spotted by duckweed, which the swandisplaced as he swam. 

He came towards Durtal, with extended beak, expecting, no doubt, a pieceof bread. 

Not a sound arose in this deserted spot, save the rustle of dry leaveswhich Durtal brushed as he walked. The clock struck seven. 

He remembered that breakfast would be ready, and he walked quickly tothe abbey. Father Etienne was waiting for him, shook hands, asked if hehad slept well, then said:

"What would you like? I can only offer you milk and honey; I will sendto-day to the nearest village and try to get you a little cheese, butyou will have only a poor meal this morning. "

Durtal proposed to exchange the milk for wine, declaring that he shouldthen do very well, and said, "In any case I should do ill to complain, for you are fasting. "

The monk smiled. "Just now, " he said, "we are doing penance, on accountof certain feasts of our order. " And he explained that he only took foodonce a day, at two o'clock in the afternoon, after Nones. 

"And you have not even wine and eggs to keep up your strength!"

Father Etienne smiled again. "One gets accustomed to it, " he said. "Whatis this rule in comparison with that adopted by Saint Bernard and hiscompanions, when they went to till the valley of Clairvaux? Their mealconsisted of oak leaves, salted, cooked in muddy water. "

And after a silence the Father continued: "No doubt the Trappist rule ishard, but it is mild if we carry our thoughts back to the rule of SaintPacomius in the East. Only think; whoever wished to join that order hadto remain ten days and nights at the door of the convent, and had toendure spitting and insults; if he still desired to enter, he fulfilleda three years' novitiate, inhabited a hut where he could not stand up, nor lie at full length, ate only olives and cabbage, prayed twelve timesin the morning, twelve times in the afternoon, twelve times in thenight; the silence was perpetual, and his mortifications never ceased. To prepare himself for this novitiate, and to learn to subdue hisappetite, Saint Macarius thought of the plan of soaking his bread in avessel with a very narrow neck, and only fed on the crumbs which hecould take out with his fingers. When he was admitted into themonastery, he contented himself with gnawing leaves of raw cabbage onSunday. Ah! they could stand more than we. We, alas! have no longersouls nor bodies stout enough to bear such fasts; but do not let thatstop your meal; make as good an one as you can. Ah, by the way, " saidthe monk, "be in the auditorium at ten precisely, where the Father Priorwill hear your confession. "

And he left the room. 

If Durtal had received a blow on his head with a mallet, he could nothave been more overwhelmed. All the scaffolding of his joys, so rapidlyrun up, fell. This strange fact had occurred, in the impulse of joy hehad felt since daybreak he had wholly forgotten that he had to confess. He had a moment of aberration. "But I am forgiven, " he thought; "theproof is that state of happiness, such as I have never known, that trulywonderful expansion of soul which I experienced in the chapel and in thewood. "

The idea that nothing had begun, that all was still to do, terrifiedhim; he had not the courage to swallow his bread, he drank a littlewine, and rushed out of doors in a wind of panic. 

He went, wildly, with great strides. Confession! The prior? Who was theprior? He sought in vain among the fathers whose faces he remembered theone who would hear him. 

"My God!" he said, all at once, "but I do not even know how a confessionis made. "

He sought a deserted corner, where he could recollect himself a little. He was striding along without even knowing how he came there, along awalnut-tree walk with a wall on one side. There were some enormoustrees, he hid himself behind the trunk of one of them, and sitting onthe moss, turned over the leaves of his prayer-book, and read: "Onarriving at the confessional, place yourself on your knees, make thesign of the cross, and ask the priest for his blessing, saying, 'Blessme, Father, for I have sinned;' then recite the Confiteor as far as _meaculpa_ ... And ... "

He stopped, and without any need of probing it his life sprang out injets of filth. 

He shrank from it, there was so much, of every kind, that he wasoverwhelmed with despair. 

Then by an effort of his will he pulled himself together, endeavoured tocontrol and bank up these torrents, to separate them so as to understandthem, but one affluent rolled back all the others, ended by overwhelmingthem, and became the river itself. 

And this sin appeared at first ape-like and sly, at school whereeveryone tempted and corrupted others; then there was all his greedyyouth, dragged through tap-rooms, rolled in swine troughs, wallowing inthe sinks of prostitution, and then an ignoble manhood. To his regulartasks had succeeded toll paid to his senses, and shameful memoriesassailed him in a crowd; he recalled to mind how he had sought aftermonstrous iniquities, his pursuit of artifices aggravating the malice ofthe act, and the accomplices and agents of his sins passed in filebefore him. 

Among all, at one time, there was a certain Mme. Chantelouve, ademoniacal adulteress who had drawn him headlong into frightfulexcesses, who had linked him to nameless crimes, sins against holythings, to sacrileges. 

"How can I tell all this to the monk?" thought Durtal, terrified by theremembrance; "how can I even express myself, so as to make himunderstand without defilement?"

Tears rushed from his eyes. "My God, my God!" he sighed, "this is indeedtoo much. "

And in her turn Florence appeared with her little street-arab smile, andher childish haunches. "I can never tell the confessor all that wasbrewed in the perfumed shade of her vices, " cried Durtal. "I can by nomeans make him face these torrents of pus. 

"Yet they say this has to be done;" and he bowed under the weight of thefoulness of this girl. 

"How shameful to have been riveted to her, how disgusting to havesatisfied the abominable demands of her desires!"

Behind this sewer extended others. He had traversed all the districts ofsin which the prayer-book patiently enumerated. He had never confessedsince his first communion, and with the piling up of years had comesuccessive deposits of sins. He grew pale at the thought that he wasabout to detail to another man all his dirt, to acknowledge his mostsecret thoughts, to say to him what one dares not repeat to one's ownself, lest one should despise oneself too much. 

He sweated with anguish, then nausea at his being, remorse for his lifesolaced him, and he gave himself up; regret for having lived so long inthis cesspool was a very crucifixion to him; he wept long, doubtingpardon, not even daring to ask it, so vile did he feel himself. 

At last he sprang up; the hour of expiation must be at hand, in fact hiswatch pointed to a quarter to ten. His agony as he thus wrought withhimself had lasted more than two hours. 

He hurriedly reached the main path which led to the monastery. He walkedwith his head down, forcing back his tears. 

He slackened his pace somewhat as he drew near the little pond; helifted his eyes in supplication to the cross, and as he lowered them hemet a look so moved, so compassionate, so gentle, that he stopped, andthe look disappeared with the bow of a lay brother, who passed on hisway. 

"He read my thoughts, " said Durtal to himself. "Oh, this charitable monkhas good reason to pity me, for indeed I suffer. Ah, Lord, that I mightbe like that humble brother!" he cried, remembering that he had seenthat very morning the young tall lad, praying in the chapel with suchfervour that he seemed to rise from the ground, before Our Lady. 

He arrived at the auditorium in a frightful state, and sank on a chair;then, like a hunted animal that thinks itself discovered, he sprang up, and, disturbed by his fears, moved by a wind of disorder, he thought offlight, that he would pack his bag, and make for the train. 

He mastered himself, undecided and trembling, his ear on the watch, hisheart beating with great strokes, and he heard the sound of distantsteps. "My God, " he said, waiting for the steps that drew near, "whatmanner of monk is coming?"

The steps were silent, and the door opened. Durtal in his alarm darednot look at the confessor, in whom he recognized the tall Trappist, withthe imperious profile, whom he believed to be the abbot of themonastery. 

His breath was taken away, and he drew back without saying a word. 

Surprised at this silence, the prior said, --

"You have asked to make your confession, sir?"

And at a sign from Durtal, he pointed out the prie-Dieu placed againstthe wall, and himself knelt down, turning his back. 

Durtal braced himself, fell down at the prie-Dieu, and then completelylost his head. He had vaguely prepared how to enter on the matter, notedthe points of his statement, classified his sins in some degree, and nowremembered nothing. 

The monk rose, sat down on a straw chair, leant towards the penitent, his hand behind his ear to hear the better. 

He waited. 

Durtal wished rather to die than speak; he succeeded, however, inmastering himself, and bridling his shame; he opened his lips, but noword came; he remained overwhelmed, his head in his hands, repressingthe tears he felt ready to fall. 

The monk did not move. 

At last he made a desperate effort, stammered the beginning of theConfiteor, and said, "I have not confessed, since my childhood; since then I have led ashameful life, I have ... "

The words would not come. 

The Trappist remained silent, and did not assist him at all. 

"I have committed every kind of debauch, I have done everything ... Everything ... "

He choked, and the tears he had repressed flowed, he wept, his body wasshaken, his face hidden in his hands. 

And as the prior, still bending over him, did not move, "But I cannot, " he cried; "I cannot. "

All that life he could not bring out, stifled him; he sobbed in despairat the view of his sins, and crushed also at finding himself thusabandoned, without a word of kindness, without help. It seemed to himthat all was giving way, that he was lost, repulsed even by Him who yethad directed him to this abbey. 

Then a hand was laid on his shoulder, while a gentle, low voice said, "Your soul is too tired for me to fatigue you with questions, come backat nine o'clock to-morrow, we shall have time before us, we shall notthen be hurried by any office; from now till then, think of the story ofCalvary; the cross, which was made for the sins of the whole world, layso heavily on the shoulders of the Saviour, that His knees bent and Hefell. A man of Cyrene passed by who helped the Lord to bear it. You, indetesting, in weeping for your sins, have alleviated and renderedlighter, if one may say so, the cross of the burthen of your sins, andhaving made it less heavy, have thus allowed Our Lord to lift it. 

"He has recompensed you by the most astonishing of miracles, the miracleof having brought you here from so far off. Thank Him, then, with allyour heart, and be not discomforted. You will say to-day for yourpenance, the Penitential Psalms, and the Litany of the Saints. I willgive you my blessing. "

And the prior blessed him and went out. Durtal raised himself up afterhis tears; what he feared so much had happened; the monk who would takehim in hand was impassive, almost dumb. "Alas!" he thought, "myabscesses are ripe, but it needs the cut of a lancet to open them. "

"After all, " he went on, as he went upstairs to bathe his eyes in hiscell, "this Trappist was compassionate at last, not so much in what hesaid, as the tone in which he said it; then, to be just, he was perhapsconfused by my tears; the Abbé Gévresin certainly did not tell FatherEtienne that I was taking refuge in La Trappe in order to be converted, let us put ourselves in the place of a man living in God, far from theworld, over whose head a shower bath is suddenly discharged. 

"Well, we shall see to-morrow;" and Durtal made haste to sponge hisface, for it was nearly eleven o'clock and the office of Sext was aboutto begin. 

He went to the chapel, which was almost empty, for the brothers wereworking at that time in the chocolate factory, and in the fields. 

The fathers were in their places in the apse. The prior struck his bell, all signed themselves with a large cross, and on the left, where hecould not see, for Durtal had taken the same place as in the morning, near Saint Joseph's altar, a voice arose:

"Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. "

And the other part of the choir answered:

"Et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Jesus. "

There was a moment's pause, and the pure thin voice of the old Trappistsang as before the office of Compline the evening before:

"Deus in adjutorium meum intende. "

And the liturgy continued its course, with its "Gloria Patri, " etc. , during which the monks bowed their foreheads on their books, and withits series of psalms, accented in short tones on the one side, and longon the other. 

Durtal, as he knelt, allowed himself to be rocked by the psalmody, tootired to be able to pray himself. 

Then, when Sext was ended, all the fathers meditated, and Durtal caughta look of pity from the prior, who turned a little towards his bench. Heunderstood that the monk implored the Saviour for him, and perhaps askedGod to show him the way in which he might conduct himself on the morrow. 

Durtal rejoined M. Bruno in the court; they shook hands, and the oblateannounced the presence of a new guest. 

"A retreatant?"

"No; a curate from the neighbourhood of Lyons, he has come to see theabbot, who is ill. "

"But I thought the abbot of Notre Dame de l'Atre was the tall monk wholed the office?"

"Oh no; that was the prior Father Maximin, you have not seen the abbot, and I doubt if you will see him, for I do not think he will leave hisbed before you go. "

They reached the guest-house, and found Father Etienne making excuses toa short fat priest for the poor fare he could offer. 

He was a jovial priest, with strong features moulded in yellow fat. 

He joked M. Bruno, whom he seemed to have known some time, on the sin ofgluttony which must so often be committed at La Trappe, then tasted, pretending a chuckle of delight, the scentless bouquet of the poor winehe poured out, and lastly, when he divided with a spoon the omelettewhich was the main dish of their dinner, he pretended to cut up a fowl, and to be delighted with the fine appearance of the flesh; saying toDurtal, "This is a barley-fed fowl, may I offer you a wing?"

This kind of pleasantry exasperated Durtal, who had no wish to laughthat day; he therefore was satisfied to make a vague bow, wishing tohimself that the end of dinner was at hand. 

The conversation continued between the priest and M. Bruno. 

After it had spread over various commonplaces, it took a more definiteform, in regard to an invisible otter which plundered the abbey ponds. 

"But, no doubt, " said the curate, "you have found its lair?"

"Never; it is easy to see in the lain grass the paths it traverses toget to the water, but we always lose its traces at the same spot. Wehave watched for days with Father Etienne, but it has never shownitself. "

The abbé explained various traps which might be set with advantage. Durtal thought of the otter-hunt which Balzac tells so pleasantly at thebeginning of his "Paysans, " when the dinner came to an end. 

The curate said grace, and said to M. Bruno, "Suppose we take a turn;the fresh air will do instead of the coffee, which they forget to giveus. "

Durtal returned to his cell. 

He felt himself emptied, injured, cheated, reduced to a state of fibre, a state of pulp. His body, crushed by the nightmares of the night, enervated by the scene of the morning, needed entire rest, and if hissoul had not still that infatuation which had broken it in tears at themonk's feet, it was sad and restless, and it also asked for silence, repose, and sleep. 

"Let us see, " said Durtal, "I must not give way, let me bestir myself. "

He read the Penitential Psalms and the Litanies of the Saints; then hehesitated between two volumes of Saint Bonaventure and Saint Angela. 

He decided on the Blessed Angela. She had sinned and had been converted, and she seemed less far from him, more intelligible, more helpful thanthe Seraphic Doctor, than a Saint who had always remained pure, sheltered from falls. For she too had been a carnal sinner; she too hadreached the Saviour from afar. 

A married woman, she lived in adultery and shame; lovers succeeded oneanother, and when she had exhausted them she threw them aside likehusks. Suddenly grace rose in her and made her soul break forth; shewent to confession, not daring to avow the more awful of her sins, andshe communicated, thus grafting sacrilege upon her other faults. 

She lived, day and night tortured by remorse, and finally prayed toSaint Francis of Assisi to help her; and the next night the saintappeared to her. "My sister, " he said, "if you had called on me sooner, I should have granted your prayer before this. " The next day she went tochurch, heard a priest preaching, understood she must address herself tohim, and laid all before him in a full confession. 

Then began the trials of an appalling life of purification. In blowafter blow she lost her mother, her husband, her children; she wentthrough such violent temptations to impurity that she was obliged toseize on lighted coals and cauterize the plague of her senses with fire. 

During two years the demon sifted her. She parted her goods among thepoor, assumed the habit of the Third Order of Saint Francis, gathered inthe sick and infirm, and begged for them in the streets. 

One day a feeling of sickness came over her before a leper whose soreswere stinking. To punish herself she drank the water in which she hadwashed the sores; she was overcome with nausea; and punished herselfyet more by forcing herself to swallow a scab which had not gone downwith the water and remained dry in her throat. 

For years she dressed ulcers and meditated on the Passion of Christ. Then her novitiate of sorrows drew to a close and a radiant day ofvisions dawned on her. Jesus treated her as a spoilt child, called her, "My sweetest, my well-beloved daughter;" He dispensed her from thenecessity of eating, and nourished her only with the Sacred Species; Hecalled her, drew her, absorbed her in uncreated light, and byanticipating her inheritance, enabled her to understand, in life, thejoys of heaven. 

And she was so simple and timid that she feared in spite of all, for thememory of her sins alarmed her. She could not believe herself forgiven, and said to Christ; "Ah, if I could but put myself in an iron collar anddrag myself to the market-place to proclaim my shame. "

And He consoled her: "Be easy, My daughter, My sufferings have atonedfor your sins;" and as she reproached herself for having lived inopulence and having delighted in clothes and jewels, He addressed her, smiling: "To buy you riches, I have wanted for everything; you requireda great number of clothes, and I had but one garment of which thesoldiers stripped Me, for which they drew lots; My nakedness was theexpiation of your vanity in ornaments. "

And all her conversations with Christ were in this tone. He passed Histime in comforting this humble creature whom His benefits overwhelmed;and this has made her the most loving of the saints! her work is asuccession of spiritual outpourings and caresses; her book is such aliving hearth that beside it the volumes of other mystics seem but dullcoal. 

"Ah, " said Durtal to himself, in turning over these pages, "it wasindeed the Christ of Saint Francis, the God of mercy who spoke to thisFranciscan!" and he went on: "that ought to give me courage, for Angelaof Foligno was as great a sinner as I am, but all her sins wereremitted! Yes, but then what a soul she had, while mine is good fornothing; instead of loving, I reason; nevertheless it is right toremember that the conditions of the Blessed Angela were more favourablethan mine. Living in the thirteenth century she had a shorter journeyto make to approach God, for since the Middle Ages, each century takesus further from Him! she lived in a time full of miracles, whichoverflowed with Saints. For me, I live in Paris in an age when miraclesare rare and Saints scarcely abound. And once away from here, what avista is before me of falling away, of soaking myself in a stew ofinfamy, in a bath of the sins of great cities. "

"By the way" ... He looked at his watch and started; it was twoo'clock--"I have missed the office of Nones, " he said; "I must simplifymy complicated horary, or I shall never know where I am;" and at once hetraced in a few lines:

"Morning. Rise at 3 o'clock, or rather at 3. 30. Breakfast at 7--Sext at11, dinner at 11. 30--Nones at 1. 30--Vespers at 5. 15--Supper at 6, andCompline at 7. 25. "

"There, at least that is clear and easy to remember--If only FatherEtienne have not noticed my absence from chapel!"

He left his room. "Ah, here is the famous rule, " he said to himself, onseeing a framed table hung on the landing. 

He approached and read:--

 "Rule for Visitors. "

It was composed of numerous paragraphs, and opened as follows:--

 "Those whom Divine Providence has guided to this monastery are requested to note the following:--

 "They will at all times avoid meeting the religious and lay brothers, and will not go near their places of work. 

 "They are forbidden to leave the cloister for the farm or the neighbourhood of the monastery. "

Then came a series of instructions which he had already seen on theprinted horary. 

Durtal skipped several paragraphs, and read again:--

 "Visitors are requested not to write anything on the doors, not to strike matches on the wall, and not to spill water on the floor. 

 "They are not allowed to visit each other's rooms or to speak to one another. 

 "Smoking is not allowed in the house. "

"Nor indeed outside, " thought Durtal. "But I want a cigarette badly;"and he went down. 

In the corridor he ran against Father Etienne, who immediately observedthat he had not seen him in his place during the office. Durtal excusedhimself as well as he could. The monk said no more, but Durtalunderstood that he was observed, and that under his childlike aspect theguest-master would, where discipline was concerned, hold him in an irongrip. He was confirmed in this impression when at Vespers he noticedthat the monk's first glance on entering the chapel was at him, but thatday he felt so sore and broken that he cared but little. This suddenchange of existence, and of the manner in which he had been accustomedto spend his time, astounded him, and since the crisis of the morning hehad been in a kind of torpor which took from him all power of recovery. He drifted to the end of the day, no longer thinking of anything, sleeping as he stood, and when the evening came he fell on his bed amere inert mass. 

CHAPTER III. 

He woke with a bound at eleven o'clock, with an impression of someonelooking at him in his sleep. Lighting a match, he ascertained the time, and seeing no one, fell back in bed again, and slept at a stretch tillfour o'clock. Then he dressed himself in haste and ran to the church. 

The vestibule, which had been dark on the previous evening, was lit upthat morning, for an old monk was celebrating mass at the altar of St. Joseph. He was bald and infirm, with a white beard waving from side toside in long threads with every gust of wind. 

A lay brother was assisting him, a small man with black hair and ashaven head, like a ball painted blue; he looked like a bandit, with hisbeard in disorder and his worn-out robe of felt. 

And the eyes of this bandit were gentle and startled like those of alittle boy. He served the priest with an almost timid respect and asuppressed joy which was touching to see. 

Others, kneeling on the flagstones, prayed with concentrated attentionor read their mass. Durtal noticed the old man of eighty, immovable withoutstretched face and closed eyes; and the youth whose look of pity hadhelped him near the pond, was following the office in his prayer-bookwith attentive meditation. He looked about twenty years old, tall andstrong; his face, with an air of fatigue, was at once masculine andtender, with emaciated features, and a light beard which fell over hishabit in a point. 

Durtal gave way to his emotions in this chapel, where everyone did alittle to help him, and thinking of the confession he was about to make, he implored the Saviour to help him, and prayed that the monk wouldcompletely explore his soul. 

And he felt himself less dismayed, more master of himself, and firmer. He collected and pulled himself together, feeling a melancholyconfusion, but he had no longer the sense of desolation which hadovercome him the evening before. He set his mind on the idea that hewould not abandon himself, that he would help himself with all hismight, and that in any case he could not collect himself better. 

These reflections were interrupted by the departure of the old Trappist, who had finished offering the sacrifice, and by the entry of the prior, who went up in the rotunda between two white fathers to say mass at thehigh altar. 

Durtal was absorbed in his prayer-book, but he ceased reading when thepriest had consumed the Species, for all rose, and he was amazed at asight of which he had never dreamed, a communion of monks. 

They advanced in single file, silent and with downcast eyes, and whenthe first arrived before the altar, he turned round to embrace thecomrade who followed; he in turn took in his arms the religious whofollowed him, and so on to the last. All, before receiving theEucharist, exchanged the kiss of peace, then they knelt, communicated, and came back in single file, turning into the rotunda behind the altar. 

And the return was unexpected; with the white fathers at the head of theline, they made their way very slowly with closed eyes and joined hands. The faces seemed to be somewhat altered; they were differently lit fromwithin; it seemed that the soul, driven by the power of the Sacramentagainst the sides of the body, filtered through the pores and lit up theskin with a special light of joy, with that kind of brightness whichpours from white souls, and makes way like a rose-coloured vapour alongthe cheeks, and shines, as if concentrated, on the brow. 

Watching the mechanical and hesitating gait of these monks, it seemed asif their bodies were no more than automata moving from habit, and thatthe souls, being elsewhere, gave no heed to them. 

Durtal recognized the old lay brother, bent so much that his facedisappeared in his beard which pressed against his chest, and his twogreat knotty hands trembled as he clasped them; he also noticed the tallyoung brother, his features seeming drawn on a dissolved surface, gliding with short steps, his eyes closed. 

By a fatal chance he thought upon himself. He was the only one who didnot communicate, for he saw M. Bruno coming last from behind the altarand returning to his place with folded arms. This exclusion brought hometo him clearly how different he was, and how far apart, from thosearound him! All were admitted, and he alone remained outside. Hisunworthiness was more apparent, and he grew sad at being put aside, looked on, as he deserved to be, as a stranger, separated like the goatof the Scriptures, penned, far from the sheep, on the left of Christ. 

These reflections were of use to him, for they relieved him of theterror of confession which was again coming over him. This act seemed tohim so natural and just, in his necessary humiliation and unavoidablesuffering, that a desire came over him to accomplish it at once, so thathe might appear in this chapel purified and washed, and with at leastsome resemblance to the others. 

When the mass was over, he made his way towards his cell to get a tabletof chocolate. 

At the top of the stairs M. Bruno, with a large apron round him, wasgetting ready to clean the steps. 

Durtal looked on him with surprise. The oblate smiled and shook handswith him. 

"This is an excellent task for the soul, " he said, showing his broom;"it recalls modest sentiments which one is too inclined to forget afterliving in the world. "

And he began sweeping vigorously, and collecting into a pan the dustwhich like pepper filled every crevice in the floor. 

Durtal carried his tablet into the garden. "Let us consider, " he said tohimself as he nibbled it; "supposing I took another walk and tried anunknown part of the wood?" And he felt no wish to do so. "No, placed asI am, I would rather haunt the same spot and not leave the places towhich I am accustomed; I am already so little under control, and soeasily disturbed, that I do not wish to risk anything by curiosity tosee new places. " And he went down to the cross pond. He went along thebanks, and having reached the end, was astonished to find, a few stepsfarther, a stream spotted with green pellicules, hollowing its waybetween two hedges which fenced in the monastery. The fields stretchedout beyond, and the roofs of a large farmhouse were visible in thetrees, and all round the horizon on hills were forests which seemed tostop the way before the sky. 

"I imagined the grounds were larger, " he said to himself, retracing hissteps; and having reached the end of the cross pond, he gazed on thehuge wooden crucifix reared in the air which was reflected in that blackmirror. It sank down, seen from behind, trembling in the small wavesstirred up by the breeze, and seemed to fall whirling round in thatstretch of ink. And as the body of the marble Christ was hidden by thewood, only the two white arms which hung below the tree could be seen, twisted in the blackness of the water. 

Seated on the grass, Durtal gazed on the hazy image of the recumbentcross, and thinking of his soul, which, like the pond, was tanned andstained by a bed of dead leaves and a dunghill of sins, he pitied theSaviour whom he was about to invite to bathe Himself there, for it wouldno longer be the Martyr of Golgotha to whom at all events death came ona hill, His head high, by daylight, in the open air! but it would be byan increase of outrages, the abominable plunging of the crucified body, the head low, by night, into a depth of mud. 

"Ah! it would be time to spare Him, in filtering and clarifying me, " hecried to himself. And the swan, till then motionless in an arm of thepond, swept over the lamentable image in advancing, and whitened themoving mourning of the waters with its peaceful reflection. 

And Durtal thought of the absolution which he would perhaps obtain, andhe reopened his prayer-book and numbered his faults; and, slowly, as onthe day before, he tapped, in his innermost being, a fountain of tears. 

"I must control myself, " he said, trembling at the idea that he wouldsuffocate again and be unable to speak; and he resolved to begin hisconfession at the other end, first going over the minor sins, keepingthe great ones for the end so as to finish with the avowal of his carnalmisdeeds: "if I succumb then I can explain myself in two words. My God!may the prior only not remain silent as he did yesterday, may he onlyabsolve me!"

He shook off his sadness, left the pond, and returning to the limeavenue, he interested himself in a closer inspection of the trees. Theyraised huge trunks, covered with reddish-brown stonecrop, silvered greyby mosses; and several that morning were wrapped as in a mantle trimmedwith pearls, gossamer threads studded with drops of dew. 

He sat down on a bench, but fearing a shower, for it looked threatening, he retired to his cell. 

He felt no desire to read; he was eager for, while yet he dreaded, thearrival of nine o'clock, to have done with, to get rid of the weightupon his soul, and he prayed mechanically, without knowing what hemumbled, always thinking on this confession, full of alarm and harassedwith fears. 

He went down a little before the time, and when he entered theauditorium his heart failed him. 

In spite of himself, his eyes were fixed upon the prie-Dieu, where hehad suffered so cruelly. 

To think that he had to put himself on that hurdle again, to stretchhimself on that rack of torture! He tried to collect himself, to composehimself--and he drew himself up quickly; he heard the footsteps of themonk. The door opened, and, for the first time, Durtal dared to look theprior in the face; it seemed to be hardly the same man, nor the face, hehad noticed from a distance; the profile was so haughty, and the fullface so sweet; the eye dulled the proud energy of the features, an eyefamiliar and deep, when at the same time there was a quiet joy and a sadpity. 

"Come, " he said, "do not be disturbed, you are about to speak to ourSaviour alone, who knows all your faults. " And he knelt down and prayedfor some time and came, as on the day before, to sit by the prie-Dieu;he bent towards Durtal and listened. 

Somewhat reassured, the penitent began without too great anguish. Heaccused himself of faults common to all men, want of charity towards hisneighbour, evil speaking, hate, rash judgment, abuse, lies, vanity, anger, etc. 

The monk interrupted him for a moment. 

"You said, just now, I think, that in your youth you contracted debts;have you paid them?"

And on an affirmative sign from Durtal, he said, "Good, " and went on, "Have you belonged to any secret society? have you fought a duel?--I amobliged to ask these questions for they are reserved cases. "

"No?--Good"--and he was silent. 

"Before God, I accuse myself of everything, " resumed Durtal; "as Iconfessed to you, yesterday, since my first communion I have given upeverything; prayers, mass, everything; I have denied God, I haveblasphemed, I had entirely lost faith. "

And Durtal stopped. 

He was reaching the sins of the flesh. His voice fell. 

"Here I do not know how to explain myself, " he said, keeping back histears. 

"Let us see, " the monk said gently; "you told me yesterday that you hadcommitted all those acts which are comprised in the sin of lust. "

"Yes, father;" and trembling, he added, "Must I go into the details?"

"No, it is useless. I will confine myself to asking you, for it altersthe nature of the sin, whether in your case there have been any privatesins, or any sins committed between persons of the same sex?"

"Not since I left school. "

"Have you committed adultery?"

"Yes. "

"Am I to understand that in your relations with women, you havecommitted every possible excess?"

Durtal made an affirmative sign. 

"That is sufficient. "

And the monk was silent. 

Durtal choked with disgust; the avowal of these horrors was a terribleeffort to him; yet crushed as he was by shame, he was beginning tobreathe, when suddenly he plunged his head again in his hands. 

The remembrance of the sacrilege in which Madame Chantelouve had madehim share, came back to him. 

Hesitatingly he confessed that he had from curiosity assisted at a blackmass, and that afterwards, without wishing it, he had defiled a Hostwhich that woman, saturated with Satanism, concealed about her. 

The prior listened without moving. 

"Did you continue your visits to that woman?"

"No; that had given me a horror of her. "

The Trappist reflected and said, "That is all?"

"I think I have confessed everything, " replied Durtal. 

The confessor was silent for some minutes, and then in a pensive voice, he murmured, "I am struck, even more than yesterday, by the astonishing miracle whichHeaven has worked in you. 

"You were sick, so sick that what Martha said of the body of Lazarusmight truly have been said of your soul, 'Iam foetet!' And Christ has, in some manner, raised you. Only do not deceive yourself, the conversionof a sinner is not his cure, but only his convalescence; and thisconvalescence sometimes lasts for several years and is often long. 

"It is expedient that you should determine from this moment to fortifyyourself against any falling back, and to do all in your power forrecovery. The preventive treatment consists of prayer, the sacrament ofpenance, and holy communion. 

"Prayer?--you know it, for without much prayer you could not havedecided to come here after the troubled life you had led. "

"Ah! but I prayed so badly!"

"It does not matter, as your wish was to pray well! Confession?--It waspainful to you; it will be less so now that you no longer have to avowthe accumulated sins of years. The communion troubles me more; for it isto be feared that when you have triumphed over the flesh the Demonshould await you there, and endeavour to draw you away, for he knowswell that, without this divine government, no healing is possible. Youwill therefore have to give this matter all your attention. "

The monk reflected a minute, and then went on, "The holy Eucharist ... You will have more need of it than others, foryou will be more unhappy than less cultured and simpler beings. You willbe tortured by the imagination. It has made you sin much; and, by a justrecompense, it will make you suffer much; it will be the badly closeddoor of your soul by which the Demon will enter and spread himself inyou. Watch over this, and pray fervently that the Saviour may help you. Tell me, have you a rosary?"

"No, father. "

"I feel, " said the monk, "that the tone in which you said 'No' shows acertain hostility to the rosary. "

"I admit that this mechanical manner of saying prayers wearies me alittle; I do not know why, but it seems to me that at the end of someseconds I can no longer think of what I am saying; I should mock, andshould certainly end by stammering out something stupid. "

"You have known, " quietly answered the prior, "some fathers of families. Their children stammer forth caresses, and tell them no matter what, andyet they are delighted to listen! Why should not our Lord, who is a goodFather, love to hear His children when they drawl, or even when theytalk nonsense?"

And after a pause he went on, "I scent the devil's artifice in what you say, for the highest gracesare attached to this crown of prayers. The most Blessed Virgin herselfrevealed to the saints this means of prayer; she declared she delightedin it; that should be enough to make us love it. 

"Do it, then, for her who has powerfully assisted in your conversion, who has interceded with her Son to save you. Remember, also, that Godwished that all graces should come to us through her. St. Bernardexpressly declares 'Totum nos habere voluit per Mariam. '"

The monk paused anew, and added, "However, the rosary enrages fools, and that is a sure sign. You willfor a penance recite ten every day for a month. "

He ceased, and then went on again, slowly, "All of us, alas! retain that scar of original sin which is theinclination towards evil; each man encourages it more or less; as foryou, since you grew up, the scar has been always open, but as you hatethe wound God will close it. 

"So I will say nothing of your past, as your repentance and your firmresolve to sin no more efface it. To-morrow, you will receive the pledgeof reconciliation, you will communicate; after so many years the Lordwill set out on the way to your soul and will rest there; approach Himwith great humility, and prepare yourself from this moment, by prayer, for this mysterious meeting of hearts which His goodness desires. Nowsay your act of contrition and I will give you holy absolution. "

The monk raised his arms, and the sleeves of his white cowl rose abovehim like two wings. With uplifted eyes he uttered the imperious formulawhich breaks the bonds, and the three words, "Ego te absolvo, " spokenmore distinctly and slowly, fell upon Durtal, who trembled from head tofoot. He almost sank to the ground, incapable of collecting himself orunderstanding himself, only feeling, in the clearest manner, that ChristHimself was present, near him in that place, and finding no word ofthanks, he wept, ravished and bowed down under the great sign of thecross with which the monk enveloped him. 

He seemed to be waking from a dream as the prior said to him, "Rejoice, your life is dead; it is buried in a cloister, and in acloister it will be born again; it is a good omen; have confidence inour Lord and go in peace. "

And the father added, pressing his hand, "Do not be afraid of disturbingme, I am entirely at your service, not only for confession, but forinterviews and for any advice which may be of use to you; you quiteunderstand me?"

They left the auditorium together; the monk bowed to him in the corridorand disappeared. Durtal hesitated whether to meditate in his cell or inthe church, when M. Bruno met him. Approaching Durtal he said, "Well? that is a fine weight the less on your stomach!"

And as Durtal looked at him in astonishment he laughed. 

"Do you think that an old sinner like me could not tell from a thousandnothings, if only from the way your poor eyes are now shining, that youhad not been reconciled when you landed here? Now I have just met thereverend father returning to the cloister, and I find you coming out ofthe auditorium; there is no need to be particularly sly to guess thatthe great wash has just taken place. "

"But, " said Durtal, "you could not have seen the prior with me, for hehad left before you came in, and he might have been performing someother duty. "

"No, for he was not in his scapular; he had his cowl on. And as henever puts on that robe except to go to church or at confessions, I wasquite certain that he came from the auditorium, as there is no office atthis hour. I may also point out that as the Trappists do not come toconfession in this room, two persons only could have been with him, youor I. "

"You may say as much, " replied Durtal, laughing. 

Father Etienne met them in the midst of all this, and Durtal asked himfor a rosary. 

"But I have not one, " exclaimed the monk. 

"I have several, " said M. Bruno, "and shall be most happy to offer youone. You will allow me, father?... "

The monk acquiesced by a sign. 

"Then if you will come with me, " replied the oblate, addressing Durtal, "I will hand it you without delay. "

They went upstairs together, and Durtal then learnt that M. Bruno livedin a room at the bottom of a small corridor, not far from his own. 

His cell was very simply furnished with old middle-class furniture, abed, a mahogany bureau, a large book-case full of ascetic books, anearthenware stove and some arm-chairs. These articles were evidently theproperty of the oblate, for they were nothing like the furniture of LaTrappe. 

"Pray be seated, " said M. Bruno, indicating an arm-chair; and theyconversed. 

Having first discussed the Sacrament of Penance, the talk came round tothe subject of Father Maximin, and Durtal admitted the high bearing ofthe prior had terrified him at first. 

M. Bruno laughed. "Yes, " he said, "he produces that effect on those whonever come near him, but when one associates with him, one finds that heis only strict for himself, for no one is more indulgent to others. Inevery acceptation of the term he is a true and holy monk; besides, hehas great judgment.... "

And as Durtal spoke to him of the other cenobites, and wondered thatthere were some quite young men among them, M. Bruno replied, "It is a mistake to suppose that most Trappists have lived in the world. The idea, so widespread, that people take refuge in La Trappe after longsorrows or disorderly lives, is absolutely false; besides, to be able tostand the weakening rule of the cloister it is necessary to beginyoung, and not to come in worn out with every kind of abuse. 

"It is also necessary to avoid confounding misanthropy with the monasticvocation; it is not hypochondria, but the divine call, which leads to LaTrappe. There is a special grace, which makes all young men who havenever lived in the world long to bury themselves in silence and thereinsuffer the hardest privations; and they are happy as I hope you will be;and yet their life is still more rigorous than you would think; take thelay brothers, for example. 

"Think of their giving themselves up to the most painful labour, andthat they have not, like the fathers, the consolation of singing andassisting at all the offices; remember that even their reward, thecommunion, is not very often conceded to them. 

"Now think of the winter here. The cold is frightful; in these decayedbuildings nothing shuts properly, and the wind sweeps the house from topto bottom; they freeze without fires, they sleep upon pallets, and theycannot help or encourage each other, for they hardly know each other, asall conversation is forbidden. 

"Think, also, that these poor people never hear a kindly word, a wordwhich would soothe and comfort them. They work from dawn till night, andthe master never thanks them for their zeal, never tells the goodworkman that he is pleased. 

"Consider, also, that in summer when men are hired from the neighbouringvillages to reap the harvest, these rest when the sun scorches thefields; they sit in their shirt sleeves under the shade of the ricks, and drink, if they are thirsty, and eat; and the lay brother in hisheavy clothes looks at them and goes on with his work, and neither eatsnor drinks. Ah! men must have well-tempered souls to stand such a life. "

"But surely there must be some off days, " said Durtal, "when the rule isrelaxed?"

"Never; there is not even, as in some very strict orders--theCarmelites, to take one instance--an hour of recreation, when thereligious may talk and laugh. Here, the silence is eternal. "

"Even when they are together in the refectory?"

"Then they read the Conferences of Cassien, the 'Holy Ladder' ofClimacus, the Lives of the Fathers of the Desert, or some other piousbook. "

"And on Sunday?"

"On Sunday they rise an hour earlier; but on the whole it is their bestday, for they can follow all the offices and pass their whole time inchurch. "

"Humility and self-denial carried to such an extent are superhuman!"cried Durtal. "But they are surely given a sufficient quantity of strongnourishment to enable them to give themselves up from morning tillevening to exhausting work in the fields?"

M. Bruno smiled. 

"They simply get vegetables which are not even as good as those whichare served to us, and, by way of wine, they quench their thirst with asour and insipid liquid, which leaves half a glass full of sediment. They get a pint each, and if they are thirsty they can add water. "

"And how often do they eat?"

"That depends. From the 14th September to Lent they only eat once a day, at half-past two--and during Lent this meal is put off till fouro'clock. From Easter to the 14th September, when the Cistercian fast isless strict, dinner is at about half-past eleven, and to this may beadded a light meal in the evening. "

"It is frightful! to work for months on one meal a day, two hours afternoon, after being up since two o'clock in the morning; having had nodinner the evening before. "

"It is sometimes necessary to relax the rule a little, and when a monkfails from weakness he is not refused a morsel of bread. 

"It would be well, " continued M. Bruno, pensively, "to relax stillfurther the grasp of these observances, for this question of food isbecoming a veritable stumbling-block in recruiting for La Trappe; soulswhich delight in these cloisters are forced to fly them, because theirbodies cannot stand the rule. "[1]

 [1] The opinion of M. Bruno has been lately adopted by all the abbeys of the order. In a General Chapter of La Trappe, held from the 12th to the 18th September, 1894, in Holland, at Tilburg, it was decided that except in seasons of fasting, the monks might eat a little in the morning, dine at eleven, and sup in the evening. 

 Article CXVI. Of the new constitutions, voted by this assembly of the Chapter and approved by the Holy See, is in effect thus conceived:--

 "Diebus quibus non jejunatur a Sancto Pascha usque ad Idus Septembris, Dominicis per totum annum et omnibus festis Sermonis aut feriatis extra Quadrigesimam, omnes monachi mane accipiant mixtum, hora undecima prandeant et ad seram coenent. "

"And the fathers lead the same life as the lay brothers?"

"Absolutely--they set the example; they all swallow the same pittance, and sleep in the same dormitory on similar beds; there is completeequality. Only, the fathers have the advantage of singing the office andobtaining more frequent communions. "

"Among the lay brothers there are two who have interested meparticularly, one quite young, a tall fair man with a pointed beard, theother a very old man, quite bent?"

"The young one is Brother Anacletus; this young man is a veritablecolumn of prayer, and one of the most precious recruits whom Heaven hasbestowed upon our abbey. As for old Simeon, he is a child of La Trappe, for he was brought up in an orphanage of the order. There you have anextraordinary soul, a true saint, who already lives absorbed in God. Wewill talk of him at greater length another day, for it is time we wentdown; the hour of Sext is near. 

"Wait, here is the rosary which I am pleased to offer you. Allow me toadd to it a medal of Saint Benedict. " And he made over to Durtal a smallwooden rosary, and the strange circle engraved with cabalistic letters, the amulet of Saint Benedict. 

"Do you know the meaning of these signs?"

"Yes; I read it once in a pamphlet of Dom Guéranger. "

"Good. And, by-the-bye, when do you communicate?"

"To-morrow. "

"To-morrow; it is impossible!"

"Why impossible?"

"Because there will be only a single mass to-morrow, that of fiveo'clock, and at that the rule prevents your communicating alone. FatherBenedict, who usually says an earlier mass, went away this morning andwill not return for two days. There is some mistake. "

"But the prior positively declared to me that I should communicateto-morrow!" exclaimed Durtal. "Not all the fathers here, then, arepriests?"

"No, in fact, as to priests, there is the abbot who is ill, the priorwho will offer the sacrifice to-morrow at five o'clock, Father Benedictof whom I spoke to you, and another whom you have not seen and who istravelling. And then, if it had been possible, I also should haveapproached the Holy Table. "

"Then, if the fathers are not all ordained, what difference is therebetween those who have obtained the priesthood and the simple laybrothers?"

"Education--to be a father a man must have studied, must know Latin, andin a word must not be what the lay brothers are, peasants or workmen. Inany case I shall see the prior, and as to the communion to-morrow, Iwill let you know, after the office. But it is tiresome; it is a pityyou could not have come up this morning, with us. "

Durtal made a gesture of regret. He went into the chapel, dwelling onthis misfortune and praying God not to delay his re-entry into grace anylonger. 

After Sext, the oblate came to rejoin him. "It is just as I thought, " hesaid, "but nevertheless you will be admitted to take the Sacrament. Thefather prior has arranged with the curate who dines with us. He will saya mass to-morrow morning before leaving, and you will then communicate. "

"Oh!" groaned Durtal. 

This news broke his heart. That he should have come to La Trappe toreceive the Eucharist from the hands of a priest of passage, from ajovial priest such as this man! "Ah, no, I have confessed to a monk, andI wished to receive the communion from a monk!" he exclaimed. "It wouldhave been better to wait till Father Benedict returned--but what can Ido? I can hardly explain to the prior how repugnant this unknown priestis to me, and how terribly painful it would be to me, after having gonethrough so much, to end by being thus reconciled in a cloister. "

And he complained to God, telling Him that all the joy he might havefelt in being purified and clean at last, was now spoilt by thisdisappointment. 

He arrived at the refectory hanging his head. 

The curate was there already. Seeing Durtal's sad demeanour, hecharitably tried to cheer him, but the jokes he attempted produced theopposite effect. Durtal smiled in order to be polite, but his air was sowearied that M. Bruno, who saw it, turned the conversation andmonopolized the priest. 

Durtal was in a hurry for his dinner to be over. He had eaten his eggand was painfully swallowing a warm potato soup made with hot oil, whichfrom its appearance might have been mistaken for vaseline; but he nowcared little about his food. 

He said to himself, "It is dreadful to carry away an irritating andpainful recollection of a first communion--and I know it will haunt mefor ever. I know well enough that from a theological point of view itdoes not matter whether I am dealing with a priest or a Trappist; bothare but interpreters between God and me, but yet, I feel very well thatit is not at all the same thing. For once at least I need a guarantee ofcertain holiness, and how can I have it with an ecclesiastic who hawksabout jokes like a bagman?" He stopped, remembering that the AbbéGévresin, fearing this mistrust, had specially sent him to a Trappistmonastery. "What a run of ill-luck!" he said to himself. 

He did not even hear the conversation which was going on beside himbetween the curate and the oblate. 

He struggled with himself all alone, as he chewed, with his nose in hisplate. 

"I do not wish to communicate to-morrow, " he went on, and he wasshocked. He was cowardly, and becoming foolish at the last. Would notthe Saviour give Himself to him all the same?

He rose from the table, stirred by a dull anguish, and he wandered inthe park and went down the paths as chance led him. 

Another idea was now growing in him, an idea that Heaven was inflictinga trial upon him. "I want humility, " he repeated. "Well, it is to punishme that I am refused the joy of being sanctified by a monk. Christ hasforgiven me, that is much. Why should He do more by taking note of mypreferences and granting my wishes?"

This thought appeased him for a few minutes, and reproaching himselffor rebelling, he accused himself of being unjust towards a priest who, after all, might be a saint. 

"Ah, enough of that, " he said; "I must accept the fact, and try for onceto be a little humble! but I have to recite my rosary. " He seatedhimself on the grass and began. 

He had not reached the second bead, when misunderstanding again pursuedhim. He began again on the Pater and Ave, and went on thinking no moreof the sense of his prayers, reflecting: "What ill-luck that the onemonk who says mass every day should be away, so that I have to gothrough such a disappointment to-morrow!"

He was silent and had a moment of calm, when suddenly a new element oftrouble burst upon him. 

He looked at the rosary, of which he had told ten beads. 

"Let me see, the prior told me to recite ten every day--ten beads or tenrosaries?"

"Beads, " he said, and almost at the same moment answered, "Rosaries. "

He remained perplexed. 

"But that is idiotic, he could not have told me to go through the rosaryten times a day; that would amount to something like five hundredprayers on end; no one could do such a task without losing his wits. There is no doubt, it is clear he meant ten beads!

"But no! for if a confessor gives a penance, it must be admitted that hewould proportion it to the greatness of the sins. And as I have suchrepugnance for these drops of devotion taken in globules, it is naturalthat he should gorge me with a large dose of the rosary!

"Still ... Still ... It cannot be! I should not have even time for itall in Paris; it is absurd!"

And the idea that he was deceiving himself came intermittently chargingback. 

"Still, there must be no haggling; in ecclesiastical language 'ten'means ten beads; no doubt ... But I remember very well that after hepronounced the word rosary, the father expressed himself thus: 'you willsay ten, ' that means ten rosaries, for otherwise he would have specifiedten ... Of a rosary. "

And so he thrust and parried with himself--"The father had no need toput the dots on all the i's, if he were using an ordinary phrase, knownto everyone. This cavilling about the value of a word is ridiculous. "

He tried to get rid of this torment by appealing to his reason; andsuddenly there came out some argument which unsettled him. 

He found out that it was through cowardice, idleness, desire forcontradiction and the necessity of rebelling, that he did not wish towind his ten reels. "Of the two interpretations I have chosen the onewhich would relieve me of all effort and trouble, it is really tooeasy!--that alone proves that I deceive myself when I try to persuademyself that the prior only ordered me to pick out ten beads!"

"Then a Pater, ten Aves, and a Gloria are nothing; it is not heavy as apenance!"

And then he answered himself, "But it is much for you, for you cannoteven attempt so much without wandering. "

He was turning on himself without advancing a step. 

"I have never felt such hesitation, " he said, trying to pull himselftogether; "I am not stupid and yet I am fighting against my good sense, for it is not a matter of doubt, I know it, I ought to say ten Aves andnot one more!"

He remained nonplussed, almost frightened at his condition which was newto him. 

And, to get out of the difficulty, to silence himself, he thought of anew idea to conciliate both parties, which seemed most concise and whichpresented at least a provisional solution. 

"In any case, " he reflected, "I cannot communicate to-morrow if I do notcomplete my penance to-day; in the doubt, the wisest course is to yokemyself to the ten rosaries; later I shall see; if necessary I shall beable to consult the prior. It is true that he will think me an idiot ifI speak to him of these rosaries! so I shall not be able to ask himthat!"

"But then, you see, you admit yourself, it can only be ten beads!"

He was furious with himself, and for silence' sake rushed upon therosary. 

He might well shut his eyes, and try to collect himself, it wasimpossible for him at the end of the second ten to follow his prayers;he hesitated, forgetting the large beads of the Paters, losing his wayin the small beads of the Aves, stamping on the ground. 

To check himself, he thought of transporting himself in imagination ateach dose, into one of the chapels of the Virgin which he loved toattend in Paris, at Notre Dame des Victoires, at St. Sulpice, at St. Severin; but these Virgins were not numerous enough for him to dedicateeach set of ten to them, so he evoked the Madonnas of the early masters, and, absorbed before their images, he turned the windlass of hisprayers, not understanding what he mumbled, but praying the Mother ofthe Saviour to accept his paternosters, as she would receive the lostsmoke of a censer forgotten before the altar. 

"I cannot force myself any more, " he said. He left this toil worried andcrushed and wanting to take breath; there were still three rosaries toexhaust. 

And as soon as he had stopped, the question of the Eucharist, which hadbeen dropped, came up again. 

"Better not to communicate than to communicate badly;" and it wasimpossible that after such debates and with such prejudices he couldproperly approach the Holy Table. 

"Yes, but then what shall I do?--in reality, was it not monstrous of meto dispute the monk's orders, to wish to carry them out in my own way, to take them up at my convenience! If this goes on, I shall sin so muchto-day that I shall have to confess again, " he said. 

To break through this feeling, he threw himself again upon his wheel, but then stupefied himself completely; the device he had tried to keephimself before the Virgin at least was used up. When he wished toabstract himself and to bring up a recollection of Memling, he could notsucceed, and his lip-prayers, wearying him, distressed him. 

"My soul is worn out, " he thought, "I should do well to let it rest, while I stay quiet. "

He wandered round the pond, not knowing what to do next. 

"Suppose I go to my cell!" He went there, tried to become absorbed inthe Little Office of the Virgin, and did not grasp a single word of thephrases he was reading. He went down and began to prowl about the parkagain. 

"This is enough to drive me mad, " he cried--and mournfully he exclaimed, "I ought to be happy, to pray in peace and prepare myself forto-morrow's act, yet never have I been so restless, so upset, so farfrom God!

"But I must finish this penance!" Despair seized him, and he was on thepoint of letting all go; he mortified himself again, and compelledhimself to tell the beads. 

He finished by despatching them; he was at the end of his powers. And heimmediately found a new means of torture. 

He reproached himself with having moaned the prayers negligently, without having even seriously tried to follow their meaning. And he wason the point of beginning the rosary over again, but in the face of theevident folly of this suggestion he pulled himself up, refused tolisten, and then he worried himself again. 

"It is none the less true that you have not literally fulfilled the taskassigned you by the confessor, for your conscience reproaches you foryour want of reflection and your wandering. "

"But I am half dead!" he exclaimed. "I cannot go through the exercisesagain in this condition!"--and once again he ended, by giving a castingvote, and finding a new weakness. 

By saying over another ten, thoughtfully pronouncing the prayers withcare, he might make up for all the beads of the rosary which he hadmumbled without understanding them. 

And he tried to turn the crank, but as soon as he had got out the Pater, he wandered; he was obstinate in wishing to grind out the Aves, but thenhis mind gave way and became thoroughly distracted. 

He stopped, thinking, "What is the use of it? besides, would one set often, however well said, be equal to five hundred prayers that havemissed fire? and then why one set of ten and not two, why not three? itis absurd!"

He grew angry; "After all, " he concluded, "these repetitions are absurd;Christ positively declared that we should not use vain repetitions inour prayers. Then what is the object of this wheel of Aves?"

"If I dwell upon such ideas, if I cavil at the injunctions of the monk, I am lost, " said he suddenly; and by an effort of will, he stifled therevolt which was rumbling in him. 

He took refuge in his cell; the hours lengthened interminably; he killedthe time by recapitulating all the same objections with all the sameanswers. It was a repetition of which he was himself ashamed. 

"So much is certain, that I am the victim of an aberration, " he said. "Ido not speak of the Eucharist; there my thoughts may not be exact, butat least they are not maddening, while as for this question ofpaternosters!"

He confused himself so much that he felt hammered like an anvil betweenthese two opposing ideas, and finally sank drowsily on a chair. 

Thus he passed the time till the hour of vespers and supper. After thismeal he returned to the park. 

And then the slumbering dispute revived and all came back. A furiousbattle was raging within him. He remained there, immovable, astounded, listening to himself, when a rapid footstep approached and M. Bruno saidto him, "Take care, you are possessed by the devil!"

And as Durtal, stupefied, did not answer, "Yes, " he said, "God sometimes allows me intuitions, and I am certain atthis moment that the devil is working in you. Let us see, what is wrongwith you?"

"I ... I do not know myself;" and Durtal told him of the extraordinaryconflict about the rosary which had been raging in him since themorning. 

"But this is madness, " exclaimed the oblate; "it is ten beads the priorordered you to tell; ten rosaries would be impossible. "

"I know it ... And yet I doubt still. "

"Always the same tactics, " said M. Bruno; "contriving to renderdisgusting the thing you ought to do. Yes, the devil wished to make therosary odious to you by crushing you with it. And what is there besides?You do not wish to communicate to-morrow?"

"True, " replied Durtal. 

"I thought as much, when I was watching you at supper. Ah! well, afterconversions the Evil One is at work; and it is nothing, believe me; hewas harder on me than that. "

He slipped his arm under Durtal's, and leading him to the auditorium, begged him to wait, and disappeared. 

Some minutes afterwards, the prior entered. 

"Well, " said he, "M. Bruno tells me that you are suffering. What is it, exactly?"

"It is so stupid that I am ashamed to explain myself. "

"You will never astonish a monk, " said the prior, smiling. 

"Well, I know precisely, I am certain that you gave me ten beads of therosary to recite every day for a month, and, since this morning, I havebeen arguing with myself against all common sense, to convince myselfthat my daily penance is to be the rosary ten times. "

"Hand me your rosary, " said the monk, "and look at these ten beads;well, that is all I prescribed for you, and all you have to recite. Soyou have told all the beads ten times to-day?"

Durtal signified assent. 

"And naturally you were perplexed, you lost all patience, and ended upby rambling. "

And seeing Durtal's pitiful smile, "Well, listen to me, " declared the father, in an energetic tone, "Iabsolutely forbid you for the future to begin a prayer again; it hasbeen badly said; so much the worse, go on, do not repeat it. 

"I need not ask you if the idea of abstaining from communion occurred toyou, for that comes of itself; it is there that the enemy directs allhis efforts. Do not listen to the devil's voice which would keep youaway; whatever happens you will communicate to-morrow. You should haveno scruple, for I command you to receive the Sacrament; I take it allupon myself. 

"And now another question; what sort of nights have you?"

Durtal told him of the awful night of his arrival at La Trappe, and ofthe feeling of being spied upon which had awakened him the day before. 

"We have long known these manifestations, they are without imminentdanger; do not therefore let them trouble you. At the same time, if theycontinue you will let me know, and we will not neglect attending tothem. "

And the Trappist left quietly, while Durtal remained thinking. 

"I never doubted that those phenomena were satanic, " he thought, "but Idid not understand these attacks upon the soul, this charge at fullspeed against my reason which remains untouched, and yet is overcome;that is remarkable; if only this lesson may be useful to me so that Imay not be unhorsed on the first alarm!"

He went up to his cell again and a great peace fell upon him. All haddied down at the voice of the monk; he now only felt surprise at havingbeen off the rails for hours; he understood now that he had beenassailed unawares and that the struggle had not been with himself. 

He said his prayers and lay down. And, suddenly, the assault began againby new tactics he had not guessed at. 

"No doubt I shall communicate to-morrow, " he said to himself; "but ... But ... Am I prepared for such an act? I ought to have collected mythoughts in the day-time, I ought to have thanked the Lord for havingabsolved me, and I have lost my time in nonsense. "

"Why did I not say that just now to Father Maximin? how is it I did notthink of it? Then I ought to have confessed again. And this priest whowill give me the communion, this priest!"

The horror which he felt for this man increased suddenly and became sovehement that he was astonished. "Ah, but there I am again knocked aboutby the enemy, " he said, and he went on:

"All that shall not prevent me from receiving the Heavenly Breadto-morrow, for I have quite decided; only how frightful it is that theSpirit of Malice should be allowed to oppress and harass me withoutrespite while I have no sign from Heaven which does not interfere, and Iknow nothing. 

"Ah! Lord, if I were only certain this communion would please Thee! Giveme a sign, show me that I may ally myself with Thee without remorse; letthe impossible take place so that, to-morrow, it may be a monk and notthis priest.... "

And he stopped himself, astonished at his boldness, asking himself howhe dared ask for, and indicate a sign. 

"It is idiotic!" he exclaimed; "in the first place, no one has a rightto claim such favours from God; and then, as He will not grant myprayer, what shall I have gained? I shall infer from the refusal that mycommunion will be worth nothing!"

And he prayed the Lord to forget his wish, excused himself for havingformed it, and wished to convince himself that He should not take itinto account, and, helped by the agitations of the day, he ended byfalling asleep as he prayed. 

CHAPTER IV. 

When he left his cell he said to himself, "This morning I shallcommunicate, " and these words, which should have thrilled him throughand through, woke no zeal in him. He remained dull, tired and caring fornothing, feeling cold in the depth of his being. 

Nevertheless a fear stimulated him when he was outside. "I do not know, "he said to himself, "when I must leave my seat and go to kneel beforethe priest; I know that the congregation should communicate after thecelebrant; but at what moment exactly ought I to move? It is indeedanother misfortune that I should have to go up, alone, towards thisTable which so disturbs me; otherwise I shall only have to follow theothers and at least be sure of not doing anything improperly. "

He scrutinized the chapel as he went in, looking round for M. Bruno who, had he been by his side, might have kept off his scruples, but theoblate could not be found. Durtal sat down, disabled, dreaming of thesign he had asked for the evening before, endeavouring to throw off therecollection, thinking of it all the same. 

He wished to examine himself and collect himself, and he was prayingHeaven to forgive him his mental vacillations when M. Bruno came in, andwent to kneel before the statue of the Virgin. 

Almost at the same minute a brother, who had a beard like seaweedgrowing from a face like a pear, took up to the altar of St. Joseph asmall rustic table on which he placed a basin, a towel, two vases and anapkin. 

Before these preparations, which recalled the imminence of theSacrifice, Durtal stiffened himself and succeeded by an effort inkeeping back his anxieties and overthrowing his troubles, and escapingfrom himself he ardently implored Our Lady to intervene so that hemight, for this hour at least, without wandering, pray in peace. 

And when he had finished his prayer he lifted his eyes and looked with astart at the priest who was advancing, preceded by a lay brother, tocelebrate mass. 

This was not the curate whom he knew, but another, younger, very tall, with a majestic air, with cheeks pale and shaven, and a bald head. 

Durtal was watching him solemnly marching towards the altar with hiseyes cast down when he suddenly noticed a violet flame light up hisfingers. 

"He wears an episcopal ring, he is a bishop, " thought Durtal, who leantforward to see the colour of the vestment underneath the chasuble andalb. It was white. 

"Then it is a monk, " he said, astounded; and, mechanically, he turnedtowards the statue of the Virgin, summoning the oblate by a hastyglance, who came to sit beside him. 

"Who is he?"

"Dom Anselm, the abbot of the monastery. "

"He who was ill?"

"Yes, he will give us communion. "

Durtal fell upon his knees, suffocated, almost trembling: he was notdreaming! Heaven was answering him by the sign on which he had fixed. 

He ought to abase himself before God, to be overwhelmed at His feet, tospread himself in a passion of gratitude; he knew and wished it! Andwithout knowing how, he was exercising himself in seeking natural causeswhich might account for the substitution of a monk for the priest. 

No doubt it was very simple; for on the whole, before admitting a kindof miracle.... "anyhow, I will keep an open mind, for after the ceremonyI wish to clear the matter up. "

And he repelled the insinuations which crept into him. Well! whatinterest could there be in the motive of this change? there clearly mustbe a motive, but it was only a consequence, an accessory; the importantpoint was the supernatural will which had produced it. "In any case youhave obtained more than you asked; you have even a better than thesimple monk you wished for, you have the abbot of La Trappe himself!"And he cried: "Oh, to believe, to believe like these poor lay brothers, not to be endowed with a soul which is blown about by every wind; tohave the faith of a child, an immovable faith, a faith which cannot berooted up! Ah, Father, Father, bury it, rivet it in me!"

And such was his enthusiasm that he came out of himself; all around himseemed to disappear and he cried, stammering, to Christ: "Lord, go notfar from me. Let Thy pity curb Thy justice; be unjust, forgive me;receive Thy poor bedesman for communion, the poor in spirit!"

M. Bruno touched his arm, and with a glance invited him to accompanyhim. They went up to the altar and knelt upon the flagstones, then, whenthe priest had blessed them, they knelt closer on the single step, andthe lay brother handed them a napkin, for there was no bar or cloth. 

And the abbot of La Trappe gave them the communion. 

They returned to their places. Durtal was in a state of absolute torpor;the Sacrament had, in a manner, anĉsthetized his mind; he fell on hisknees at his bench, incapable even of unravelling what might be movingwithin him, unable to rally and pull himself together. 

And all of a sudden the impression came over him that he was suffocatingand wanted air; the mass was finished; he rushed out and ran to hiswalk; there he wished to take an account of himself and he foundnothing. 

And in front of the cross pond, in whose waters the Christ was drowning, there came over him an infinite melancholy, a vast sadness. 

It was a true syncope of the soul; it lost consciousness; and when itcame to itself, he was astonished that he had not felt an unknowntransport of joy; then he dwelt on a troublesome recollection, on theall too human side of the deglutition of a God; the Host had stuckagainst his palate, and he had had to seek it with his tongue and rollit about like a pancake in order to swallow it. 

Ah! it was still too material! he only wanted a fluid, a perfume, afire, a breath!

And he tried to explain to himself the treatment that the Saviour madehim follow. 

All his anticipations had returned; it was the absolution and not thecommunion which had worked. When with the confessor he had very clearlyperceived the presence of the Redeemer; all his being had, in a manner, been injected with divine effluvia, and the Eucharist had only broughthim suffocation and trouble. 

It seemed that the effects of the two Sacraments had changed places theone with the other; they had worked the wrong way with him; Christ hadbeen perceptible to his soul before and not afterwards. 

"But it is easy enough to see, " he reflected, "that the great questionfor me is to have an absolute certainty of my forgiveness! By a specialfavour, Jesus has ratified my faith in the healing power of Penance. Whyshould He have done more?"

"And then, what bounties would He reserve for His saints? After all I amastonishing. It is too much that I should wish to be treated as Hecertainly treats Brother Anacletus and Brother Simeon. "

"I have obtained more than I deserve. And what an answer I had, thisvery morning? Yes, indeed, but why should such advances end suddenly inthis recoil?"

And making his way towards the abbey to eat his bread and cheese, hesaid to himself: "My error towards God is to be always arguing, when Iought to adore stupidly as these monks here do. Ah! to be able to keepsilence, silence to one's self, that is indeed a grace!"

He reached the refectory, which, as a rule, he had to himself, M. Brunonever coming to the meal at seven o'clock in the morning. He wasbeginning to cut himself a piece of bread, when the father guest-masterappeared. 

He had a whetstone and some knives in his hand, and smiling at Durtal, he said: "I am going to polish the knives of the monastery, for theywant it badly. " And he placed them on a table in a small room attachedto the refectory. 

"Well, are you satisfied?" he said, on coming back. 

"Certainly--but, what happened this morning, how is it I wascommunicated by the abbot of La Trappe, when I should have been by thecurate who dines with me?"

"Ah!" exclaimed the monk, "I was as much surprised as you. On waking, the Father Abbot suddenly declared that he must say mass this morning. He got up in spite of the observations of the prior, who as a doctor, forbade him to leave his bed. Neither I, nor any one else, knows whattook him. Then they told him that a retreatant would communicate and heanswered 'Just so, I shall communicate him. ' And then M. Bruno took theopportunity of also approaching the Sacrament, for he loves to receiveour Saviour from the hands of Dom Anselm. "

"And this arrangement also satisfied the curate, " the monk went on, smiling; "for he left La Trappe at an earlier hour this morning and hasbeen able to say his mass in a parish where he was expected.... By theway, he told me to make his excuses to you for not having been able tobid you good-bye. "

Durtal bowed. "There is no doubt about it, " he thought, "God wished togive me an unmistakable answer. "

"And your health?"

"It is good, father; I am astounded; my digestion has never been so goodas it is here; to say nothing of the fact that the neuralgia, which Ifeared so much, has spared me. "

"That shows that Heaven protects you. "

"Yes, indeed. But now that I remember it, I have long wished to ask youthis--how are your offices arranged? They do not correspond with thoseprinted in my prayer-book. "

"No, they differ from yours, which belong to the Roman ritual. At thesame time, the Vespers are almost similar, except sometimes the lessons, and then what may put you out is that ours are often preceded by theVespers of the Blessed Virgin. As a general rule we have a psalm less inthe office, and the lessons are nearly always short. 

"Except, " Father Etienne went on, smiling, "in Compline, the very oneyou recite. Thus you may have noticed we know nothing of 'In manus tuas, Domine, ' which is one of the few short lessons sung in parish churches. 

"We have also a special Proper of Saints; we celebrate the commemorationof the Blessed of our order which you will not find in your books. Infact we follow the letter of the monastic breviary of Saint Benedict. "

Durtal had finished his breakfast. He rose, fearing to trouble thefather by his questions. 

One word of the monk, however, was troubling his brain, that relating tothe prior as a doctor; and before going out he spoke of this again toFather Etienne. 

"No--the Reverend Father Maximin is not a doctor, but he understandssimples very well, and he has a small pharmacy which is enough as longas no one is seriously ill. "

"And in that case?"

"In that case the practitioner can be called in from one of the nearesttowns, but no one is ever so ill as that; or else the end is approachingand the doctor's visit would be useless.... "

"So on the whole the prior looks after soul and body at La Trappe. "

The monk signified assent. 

Durtal went out. He hoped to get rid of his suffocation by a long walk. 

He took a road which he had not been along before, and came out on aglade where stood the ruins of an ancient convent, some bits of wall, truncated columns and capitals in the Roman style; unhappily theseremains were in a deplorable condition, rough, covered with moss andriddled with holes like pumice stones. 

He went on and came to the end of a long walk, at the top of which was apond five or six times as large as the small one in the form of a cross, which he frequented. 

The walk was planted with old oaks on each side, and in the middle, neara wooden bench, stood a cast-iron statue of the Virgin. 

He groaned as he looked at it. The crime of the church followed him oncemore; even in this little chapel so full of divine compassion, all thestatues came from the religious bazaars of Paris or Lyons. 

He took his position below, near the pond whose banks were bordered byreeds surrounded by tufts of osiers; and he amused himself by examiningthe colours of these shrubs, with their smooth green leaves and stalksof citron yellow, or blood red, noticing the curling water which beganto foam with a gust of wind. And the martins skimmed it, touching itwith the tips of their wings from which drops of water fell like pearlsof quicksilver. And the birds rose whirling above and giving out theircries of weet, weet, weet, while the dragon-flies shone brightly in theair which they slashed with blue flames. 

"Peaceful refuge!" thought Durtal; "I ought to have come to rest herebefore. " He sat down on a bed of moss and interested himself in thenoiseless and active life of the waters. Now the splash and flash of theturn of a leaping carp; now great spiders skating on the surface, makinglittle circles and driving one against another, stopping, going back andmaking new rounds; then, near him on the ground, Durtal noticed jumping, green grasshoppers with vermilion bellies, or, scaling the oaks, colonies of queer insects on whose backs a devil's head was painted inred lead on a black ground. 

And above all that, if he raised his eyes, there was the silent upturnedsea of heaven, a blue sea crested with surging white clouds like waves;and at the same time this firmament moved in the water where it billowedunder a blueish gray glass. 

Durtal felt himself expand as he smoked cigarettes; the melancholy whichhad oppressed him since the dawn began to melt away, and joy crept intohim as he felt his soul was washed in the pool of the Sacraments anddried in the air of a cloister. And he was at once happy and uneasy;happy, for the meeting he had had with the father guest-master, hadremoved all the doubts he had entertained as to the supernatural side tothe sudden change of a priest for a monk to communicate him; happy, also, to know that not only had Christ not repulsed him in spite of allthe disorders of his life, but that He was encouraging him and givinghim pledges, ratifying the signs of His favours by perceptible acts. Andnevertheless he was uneasy, for he knew himself to be barren, and feltthat it was necessary for him to be grateful for this goodness by astruggle with himself and an entirely new existence differing completelyfrom that he had hitherto led. 

"Well, we shall see!" and he went off to the office of Sext almostcalmed, and thence to dinner, where he found M. Bruno. 

"We will go for a walk to-day, " said the oblate, rubbing his hands. 

Durtal looked at him with astonishment. 

"Yes, indeed, I thought that after a communion a little air outside thewalls would do you good, and I proposed to the Reverend Father Abbot tofree you from the rule for to-day, if the offer is not disagreeable toyou. "

"I gladly accept, and thank you sincerely for your kind attention, " saidDurtal. 

They dined off a soup made with oil in which a stick of cabbage and somepeas were swimming; it was not bad; but the bread made at La Trappereminded him, when stale, of the bread in the siege of Paris, and madethe soup turn sour. 

Then they tasted an egg with sorrel and some rice steeped in milk. 

"If it suits you, " said the oblate, "we will begin by paying a visit toDom Anselm, who has expressed a wish to know you. "

And M. Bruno led Durtal through a labyrinth of passages and staircasesto a small cell where the abbot was. He was dressed like the fathers ina white robe and a black scapular; only at the end of a violet cord hebore on his breast an abbot's cross of ivory, in the centre of which, under a round glass, some relics were inserted. 

He gave his hand to Durtal and begged him to sit down. 

Then he asked if the food seemed to be enough for him. And on receivinga reply in the affirmative from Durtal he inquired if the long silencedid not weigh upon him too much. 

"Not at all, this solitude suits me perfectly. "

"Well, " said the abbot, laughing, "you are one of the few laymen whohave borne our rule so easily. Generally those who have tried to make aretreat here have been devoured by home sickness and spleen, and havehad but one idea, to get away. "

"Let us see, " he said after a pause; "it is not possible, all the same, that such a sudden change of habits should not bring with it somepainful privations; there must be at least one which you feel above allthe others?"

"True, I feel the want of being able to light a cigarette whenever Ilike. "

The abbot answered smiling, "But I suppose you have not been entirelywithout smoking, since you came here?"

"I should tell a lie if I said I had not smoked in secret. "

"Why, bless me, tobacco was not foreseen by St. Benedict; there is nomention of it in his rule, and I am therefore free to allow its use; sosmoke as many cigarettes as you like without being uneasy. "

And Dom Anselm added:

"I hope shortly to have a little more time to myself, unless, indeed, Iam obliged to keep my room, in that case I shall be happy to have alonger talk with you. "

And the monk, who seemed exhausted, shook them by the hand. 

Going down into the court with the oblate Durtal exclaimed, "The Father Abbot is charming, and quite young. "

"He is hardly forty. "

"He appears to be really ill. "

"Yes, he is not well, and he required no common energy to say his massthis morning; but let us see, we will first of all visit the grounds ofLa Trappe which you can hardly have been over completely, then we willleave the enclosure and push on to the farm. "

They started, skirting the remains of the ancient abbey, and as theywalked, turning by the piece of water near which Durtal had been seatedin the morning, M. Bruno entered into explanations about the ruins. 

"This monastery was founded in 1127 by St. Bernard, who installed theBlessed Humbert as abbot, an epileptic Cistercian, whom he had cured bya miracle. At that time there were apparitions in the convent; a legendrelates that two angels came and cut one of the lilies planted in thecemetery every time one of the monks died. 

"The second abbot was the Blessed Guerric, who was famous for hisknowledge, his humility and his patience in enduring evils. We possesshis relics and they are enclosed in the shrine under the high altar. 

"But the most remarkable of the superiors, who succeeded each other herein the middle ages, was Peter Monoculus, whose story was written by hisfriend, the member of the synod, Thomas de Reuil. 

"Pierre, called Monoculus, or the one-eyed, was a saint thirsting forausterities and sufferings. He was assailed by horrible temptations atwhich he laughed. Exasperated, the Devil attacked his body and, by fitsof neuralgia, broke his skull, but Heaven came to his aid and cured it. By shedding tears from a spirit of penitence, Peter lost an eye, and hethanked our Lord for this blessing, 'I had' he said, 'two enemies; Ihave escaped the first, but the one I retain troubles me more than theone I have lost. '

"He worked miracles of healing. The king of France, Louis VII. , venerated him so much that, on seeing the empty eyelid, he wished tokiss it. Monoculus died in 1186; they soaked linen cloths in his blood, and washed his entrails in wine which was distributed, for the mixturewas a powerful remedy. 

"The property of the abbey was then immense; it comprised all thecountry which surrounds us, kept up several lazar houses in theneighbourhood, and was the home of more than three hundred monks. Unfortunately what happened to others happened to Notre-Dame de l'Atre. Under the rule of abbots in commendam it declined, and it was dying withonly six religious to look after it when the Revolution suppressed it. The church was then pulled down and afterwards replaced by the rotundachapel. 

"Only in 1875 the present house, which I think dates from 1733, wasreconciled and became a monastery again. Trappists were brought herefrom Sainte Marie de la Mer, in the diocese of Toulouse, and this smallcolony has made Notre-Dame de l'Atre the Cistercian nursery you see. 

"Such, in few words, is the history of the convent, " said the oblate. "As for the ruins they are buried underground, and no doubt preciousfragments might be discovered, but for want of money and men noexcavations have been made. 

"In addition to the broken columns and the capitals we passed, thereremains from the old church a large statue of the Virgin which has beenerected in one of the corridors of the abbey; besides this there are twoangels fairly well preserved and which you may see down there at the endof the cloister in a small chapel, hidden behind a curtain of trees. "

"A virgin, before which St. Bernard may possibly have knelt, oughtsurely to have been put in the church on the altar dedicated to Mary, for the coloured statue, which surmounts it, is of cryingugliness--like that one also, " said Durtal, pointing out in the distancethe cast-iron Madonna which towered above the pond. 

The oblate bowed his head and did not reply. 

"Do you know, " exclaimed Durtal, who in the face of this silence did notpersist and changed the conversation, "do you know that I envy youliving here?"

"It is certain that I do not deserve this favour, for, on the whole, thecloister is less an expiation than a reward; it is the only place where, far from the world and near heaven, the only place where a man may givehimself up to this mystic life which only develops in solitude andsilence. "

"Yes, and if possible, I envy you yet more that you should have had thecourage to venture into regions which, I confess, frightened me. And Iknow so well that, in spite of the spring-board of prayers and fasts, inspite of the green house, or orchid house atmosphere, wherein mysticismis grown, I should wither away in these regions without ever expandingagain. "

The oblate smiled. "What do you know about it?" he replied, "the thingis not done in an hour; the orchid you speak of does not flower in aday; the advance is so slow, that mortifications space themselves out, fatigues are distributed over years, and, on the whole, are easilyborne. 

"As a general rule it is necessary, to cross the distance whichseparates us from the Creator, to go through three grades to attain thatscience of Christian perfection which is called mysticism; we must livein turn the life of Purification, of Illumination and of Unity--to jointhe uncreated Good and be poured out in Him. 

"It matters little that these three grand phases of ascetic existencesubdivide themselves into an infinity of stages; which are degreesaccording to Saint Bonaventure, dwelling places according to SaintTeresa, steps according to Saint Angela; they may vary in length andnumber, according to the will of the Lord and the temperament of thosewho go through them. It is not disputed that the journey of the soultowards God includes, first, perpendicular and breakneck roads--theseare the roads of the life of Purification--next, narrower paths still, but well marked out and accessible--these are the paths of the life ofIllumination--at length, a wide road almost smooth, the road of thelife of unity, at the end of which the soul throws itself into thefurnace of Love, and falls into the abyss of the most adorable Infinity!

"On the whole, these three ways are successively reserved to those whostart in Christian asceticism, to those who practise it, and finally tothose who attain to the supreme end, the death of self and the life inGod. 

"Long, " pursued the oblate, "I have placed my desires beyond thehorizon, yet I progress little; I am scarcely disengaged from the lifeof Purification, scarcely.... "

"And you do not fear--how shall I say--material infirmities, for if atlast you succeed in attaining the limits of contemplation, you risk theruin of your body for ever. Experience seems to show, in effect, thatthe deified soul acts on the constitution and brings incurabletroubles. "

The oblate smiled. "In the first place I should, no doubt, fail toattain to the last degree of initiation, the extreme point of mysticism;then, supposing I attain it, what would corporal accidents be in theface of such results?

"Let me also assure you that these accidents are neither so frequent norso certain as you seem to think. 

"A man may be a great mystic, or an admirable saint, and not be thesubject of visible phenomena for those who surround him. Would you notthink, for example, that levitation, or the flight of bodies in the air, which seems to constitute the highest state of rapture, is one of therarest? Whom can you quote to me? Saint Teresa, Saint Christina theAdmirable, Saint Peter of Alcantara, Dominic of Mary Jesus, Agnes ofBohemia, Margaret of the Blessed Sacrament, the Blessed Gorardesca ofPisa, and above all Saint Joseph of Cupertino, who raised himself atwill from the ground. But they are ten or twenty out of thousands of theelect!

"And note well that these gifts do not prove their superiority overother Saints. Saint Teresa declares expressly: it must not be imaginedthat anyone, blessed as he may be in this respect, is better than thosewho are not so blessed, for our Lord directs each one according to hisparticular need. 

"And then the doctrine of the Church is seen in the untiring prudenceshown in the canonization of the dead. Qualities and not extraordinaryacts decide this; for the Church, miracles themselves are only secondaryproofs, for she knows that the Spirit of Evil imitates them. 

"In the lives of the Blessed you will find, too, the most unusual deeds, and more amazing phenomena than in the biographies of the Saints. Thesephenomena have rather hindered than helped them. After having beatifiedthem for their virtues, the Church has put off--and no doubt for a longtime--their promotion to the sovereign dignity of Saints. 

"It is difficult, on the whole, to formulate an exact theory on thissubject, for if the cause, if the mental action is the same in allmystics, it differs a little, as I have said, according to God's willand the character of the subjects; the difference of sex often changesthe form of the mystic flow, though in essence it never varies; the rushof the Spirit from on High may produce different effects, but is nonethe less identical. 

"The only observation we dare make in these matters is that women, as arule, are more passive and less reserved, while men resist moreviolently the wishes of Heaven. "

"That makes me think, " said Durtal, "that even in religion there aresouls which seem to have mistaken their sex. Saint Francis of Assisi, who was all love, had rather the feminine soul of a nun, and SaintTeresa, who was the most attentive of psychologists, had the virile soulof a monk. We might correctly speak of Saint Francis as a woman andSaint Teresa as a man. "

The oblate smiled. "To return to your question, " he resumed, "I do notat all believe that illness can be the necessary consequence ofphenomena aroused by the impetuous force of mysticism. "

"But look at Saint Colette, Lidwine, Saint Aldegonde, Jane-Mary of theCross, Sister Emmerich and how many more who passed their existence, half paralyzed, upon a bed! They are a small minority. Besides, theSaints or Blessed ones whose names you quote were victims ofsubstitution, expiating the sins of others, a part God had reserved tothem; it is not, therefore, surprising that they were bed-ridden andcripples, and were constantly half dead. 

"No, the truth is that mysticism can modify the needs of the body, without, for all that, having much effect on, or destroying the health. I know well, you would answer me with that terrible phrase of SaintHildegarde, a phrase at once just and sinister: 'the Lord dwells not inthe bodies of the healthy and vigorous, ' and you might add, with SaintTeresa, that evils are more frequent in the last of the castles of thesoul. Yes, but these saints hoist themselves on the summit of life andretain God in a permanent manner in their carnal shell. Having reachedthis point, nature, too feeble to support a perfect state, gives way, but, I assert again, these cases are an exception and not a rule. And, alas, such maladies are not contagious. 

"I am quite aware, " resumed the oblate, after a pause, "that the veryexistence of mysticism is resolutely denied by some who in consequencecan never admit the possibility of any influence over the bodily organs, but the experience of this supernatural reality is from all time, andproofs abound. 

"Let us take the stomach for example. Well, under the heavenlyinfluence, it becomes transformed, omits all earthly nourishment andconsumes the Holy Species only. 

"Saint Catherine of Siena and Angela of Foligno lived for yearsexclusively on the Sacrament; and this gift devolved equally upon SaintColette, Saint Lidwine, Dominic of Paradise, Saint Columba of Rieti, Mary Bagnesi, Rose of Lima, Saint Peter of Alcantara, Mother Agnes ofLangeac and on many others. 

"Under the divine impress the senses of smell and taste presented noless strange metamorphoses. Saint Philip Nevi, Saint Angela, SaintMargaret of Cortona recognized a special taste in unleavened bread, whenafter the consecration there was no longer any wheat, but the very fleshof Christ. Saint Pacomius knew heretics by their foul smell; SaintCatherine of Siena, Saint Joseph of Cupertino and Mother Agnes of Jesusdiscovered sins by their evil odours; Saint Hilarion, Saint Lutgarde, Gentilla of Ravenna, could tell merely by the scent of those whom theymet what faults they had committed. 

"And the Saints themselves, whether living or dead, exhaled powerfulperfumes. 

"When Saint Francis de Paul and Venturini of Bergamo offered theSacrifice they smelt sweet. Saint Joseph of Cupertino secreted suchfragrant odours that his track could be followed; and sometimes it wasduring illness that these aromas were diffused. 

"The pus of Saint John of the Cross and of the Blessed Didée gave forthstrong and distinct scent of lilies; Barthole, the tertiary, gnawed tothe bones by leprosy, gave out pleasant emanations, and the same was thecase with Lidwine, Ida of Louvain, Saint Colette, Saint Humiliana, Maria-Victoria of Genoa, Dominic of Paradise, whose wounds were boxes ofperfume, whence fresh scents escaped. 

"And thus we can enumerate organs and senses one after another, anddeclare marvellous effects. Without speaking of those faithful stigmatawhich open or shut according to the Proper of the liturgical year, whatis more astounding than the gift of bilocation, the power of doublingoneself, of being in two places at the same time, at the same moment?And yet what numerous examples exist of this incredible fact: many arecelebrated, amongst others those of Saint Antony of Padua, Saint FrancisXavier, Marie of Agreda, who was at the same time in her monastery inSpain and in Mexico when she was preaching to infidels, Mother Agnes ofJesus, who came to visit M. Olier at Paris without leaving her conventat Langeac. And, again, the action from on High seems singularlyenergetic when it takes hold of the central organ of circulation, themotor which drives the blood into all parts of the body. 

"Numbers of the elect had such a burning heart that the linen they worewas singed; the fire which consumed Ursula Benincasa, the foundress ofthe Theatines, was so strong that this saint breathed columns of smokeas soon as she opened her mouth; Saint Catherine of Genoa dipped herfeet or her hands in iced water and the water boiled; snow melted roundSaint Peter of Alcantara, and, one day when the blessed Gerlach wascrossing a forest in the depth of winter he advised his companion, whowalked behind him, and who could not go on, as his legs were numb, toput his feet into his footsteps, and immediately he ceased to feel cold. 

"I will add that certain of these phenomena, which make freethinkerssmile, have been renewed and have been verified quite recently. 

"Linen scorched by the fire of the heart has been observed by Dr. Imbert-Gourbeyre on the stigmatized Palma d'Oria, and phenomena of highmysticism, which no science can explain, were watched in the case ofLouise Lateau, minute by minute, and noted and controlled by ProfessorRohling, Dr. Lafebvre, Dr. Imbert Gourbeyre, Dr. De Noüe, by medicaldelegates from all countries.... 

"But here we are, " said the oblate; "excuse me, I will go first to showyou the way. "

They had left the enclosure as he spoke, and cutting across the fields, reached an immense farm. Trappists bowed respectfully as they enteredthe court yard. M. Bruno, addressing himself to one of them, asked himto be good enough to take them over the property. 

The lay brother took them to the cattle sheds, then to the stables, thento the poultry yard; Durtal, who was not interested in such sights, confined himself to admiring the grace of these good people. No onespoke, but they replied to questions by signs and winks. 

"But how do they communicate with each other?" asked Durtal, when theywere outside the farm. 

"You have just seen; they correspond by signs; they have a simpleralphabet than that of the deaf and dumb, for each idea that they mayrequire to express for their common work is foreseen. 

"Thus the word 'wash' is translated by one hand tapping on the other;the word 'vegetable' by scratching the left forefinger; sleep is feignedby leaning the head upon the fist; drink by raising a closed hand to thelips. And for more spiritual expressions they employ a like method. Confession is translated by a finger kissed and laid upon the heart;holy water by five fingers of the left hand clasped on which a cross ismade with the thumb of the right hand; fasting by fingers which closethe mouth; the word 'yesterday' by turning the arm back towards theshoulder; shame by covering the eyes with the hand. "

"But supposing they wished to indicate me, who am not one of themselves, how would they set about it?"

"They would use the sign of 'guest, ' which they make by stretching outthe hand and bringing it near the body. "

"That means that I come to them from far, an open and even transparentfact if you like. "

They went silently along a walk which led down into the labour fields. 

"I have not noticed Brother Anacletus or old Simeon among these monks, "exclaimed Durtal, suddenly. 

"They are not occupied on the farm; Brother Anacletus is employed in thechocolate factory, and Brother Simeon looks after the pigs; both areworking in the immediate neighbourhood of the monastery. If you like, wewill go and wish Simeon good-morning. "

And the oblate added, "You can tell them, when you go back to Paris, that you have seen a real saint, such as existed in the eleventhcentury; he carries us back to the time of St. Francis of Assisi; he isin some sense the reincarnation of that astonishing Juniper whoseinnocent exploits the Fioretti celebrate for us. You know that work?"

"Yes; after the Golden Legend it is the book on which the soul of theMiddle Ages is most clearly impressed. "

"But to return to Simeon; this old man is a saint of uncommonsimplicity. Here is one proof out of a thousand. Several months ago Iwas in the prior's cell when Brother Simeon appeared. He made use of theordinary formula in asking permission to speak, 'Benedicite. ' FatherMaximin replied 'Dominus, ' and on this word, which permitted him tospeak, the brother showed his glasses and said he could no longer seeclearly. 

"'That is not very surprising, ' said the prior, 'you have been using thesame glasses for nearly ten years, and since then your eyes may wellhave become weaker; never mind, we will find the number which suits yoursight now. '

"As he spoke, Father Maximin mechanically moved the glass of thespectacles between his hands, and suddenly he laughed, showing me hisfingers, which were black. He turned round, took a cloth, cleaned thespectacles, and replacing them on the brother's nose, said to him, 'Doyou see, Brother Simeon?'

"And the old man, astonished, cried 'Yes ... I see!'

"But this is only one side of this good man. Another is the love of hisbeasts. When a sow is going to bring forth, he asks permission to passthe night by her, and delivers her, looking after her like his child, weeps when they sell his little pigs or when the big ones are sent tothe slaughter-house! And how all the animals adore him!"

"Truly, " the oblate went on, after a silence, "God loves simple soulsabove all, for he loads Brother Simeon with graces. Alone, here, he canreabsorb and even prevent the demoniacal accidents which arise incloisters. Then we assist at strange performances: one fine morning allthe pigs fall on their sides; they are ill and at the point of death. 

"Simeon, who knows the origin of these evils, cries to the Devil: 'Wait, wait, and you will see!' He runs for holy water, and sprinkles them withit, praying the while, and all the beasts who were dying jump up, frisking about and wagging their tails. 

"As for diabolic incursions into the convent itself, they are but tooreal, and sometimes are only driven back after persistent prayers andenergetic fastings; at certain times in most convents the Demon sows aharvest of hobgoblins of whom no one knows how to get rid. Here, thefather abbot, the prior, and all those who are priests have failed; itwas necessary, to give efficacy to the exorcisms, that the humble laybrother should intervene; so, to forestall new attacks, he has obtainedthe right to wash the monastery with holy water and to use prayerswhenever he thinks well to do so. 

"He has the power of feeling where the Evil One is hidden, and hefollows him, tracks him, and finally casts him out. "

"Here is the piggery, " continued M. Bruno, showing a tumble-down oldplace in front of the left wing of the cloister, surrounded bypalisades; and he added, "I warn you, the old man grunts like a pig, but he will not answer yourquestions except by signs. "

"But he can speak to his animals?"

"Yes, to them only. "

The oblate opened a small door, and the lay brother, all bent, liftedhis head with difficulty. 

"Good-day, brother, " said M. Bruno; "here is a gentleman who would liketo see your pupils. "

There was a grunt of joy on the lips of the old man. He smiled andinvited them by a sign to follow him. 

He introduced them into a shed, and Durtal recoiled, deafened byhorrible cries, suffocated by the pestilential heat of the liquidmanure. All the pigs jumped up behind their barrier, and howled withjoy at the sight of the brother. 

"Peace, peace, " said the old man, in a gentle voice; and lifting an armover the paling, he caressed the snouts which, on smelling him, werealmost suffocated by grunting. 

He drew Durtal aside by the arm, and making him lean over the trelliswork, showed him an enormous sow with a snub nose, of English breed, amonstrous animal surrounded by a company of sucking pigs which rushed, as if mad, at her teats. 

"Yes, my beauty; go, my beauty, " murmured the old man, stroking herbristles with his hand. 

And the sow looked at him with little languishing eyes, and licked hisfingers; she ended by screaming abominably when he went away. 

And Brother Simeon showed off other pupils, pigs with ears like themouth of a trumpet and corkscrew tails, sows whose stomachs trailed andwhose feet seemed hardly outside their bodies, new-born pigs whichsucked ravenously at the teats, larger ones, who delighted in chasingeach other about and rolled in the mud, snorting. 

Durtal complimented him on the beasts, and the old man was jubilant, wiping his face with his great hand; then, on the oblate inquiring aboutthe litter of some sow, he felt his fingers in a row; replying to theobservation that the animals were very greedy, by stretching his arms toheaven, showing the empty troughs, lifting ends of wood, tearing uptufts of grass which he carried to his lips, grunting as if he had hismuzzle full. 

Then he took them into the courtyard, placed them against the wall, opened a door beyond, and hid himself. A formidable boar passed like awaterspout, upset a wheelbarrow, scattering everything round him with anoise like a shell bursting; then he broke into a gallop all round thecourtyard, and ended by taking a header into a sea of liquid manure. Hewallowed, turned head over heels, kicked about with his four feet in theair, and got up black and disgusting as the inside of a chimney. 

After this he halted, grunted a cheerful note, and wished to fawn on themonk, who checked him with a gesture. 

"Your boar is splendid!" said Durtal. 

And the lay brother looked on Durtal with moist eyes as he rubbed hisneck with his hand, sighing. 

"That means they are going to kill him soon, " said the oblate. 

And the old man acquiesced with a melancholy shake of his head. 

They left him, thanking him for his kindness. 

"When I think of how this being, who is devoted to the lowest duties, prays in church, I long to kneel before him and, like his pigs, kiss hishands!" exclaimed Durtal after a silence. 

"Brother Simeon is an angelic being, " replied the oblate. "He lives theUnitive life, his soul plunged, drowned in the divine essence. Under arough exterior an absolutely white soul, a soul without sin, lives inthis poor body; it is right that God should spoil him! As I have toldyou, He has given him all power over the Demon; and in certain cases Heallows him also the power of healing by the imposition of hands. He hasrenewed here the wonderful cures of the ancient saints. "

They ceased speaking, and, warned by the bells which were ringing forVespers, they moved towards the church. 

And, coming to himself again, trying to recover, Durtal remainedastounded. Monastic life retarded time. How many weeks had he been at LaTrappe, and how many days since had he approached the Sacraments? thatwas lost in the distance. Ah, life was double in these cloisters! Andyet he was not tired of it; he had bent himself easily to the hard rule, and, in spite of the scanty meals, he felt no sick headaches or failing;he had never felt so well!--but what remained was a feeling of stifling, of restrained sighs, this burning melancholy for hours, and, more thanall, this vague anxiety at listening again within himself, and hearingunited in his person the voices of this Trinity, God, the Devil, andMan. 

"This is not the peace of the soul I dreamed of--and it is even worsethan at Paris, " he said to himself, recalling the maddening trial of therosary--"and yet--how can I explain it? I am happy here all the same. "

CHAPTER V. 

Rising, somewhat earlier than his wont, Durtal went down to the chapel. The office of Matins was over, but some lay brothers, amongst whom wasBrother Simeon, were praying on their knees on the ground. 

The sight of this holy swine-herd threw Durtal into a long train ofthought. He tried in vain to penetrate into the sanctuary of that soul, hidden like an invisible chapel behind the dunghill rampart of a body;he did not even succeed in representing to himself the docile andclinging soul of this man, who had attained the highest state to whichthe human creature can reach here below. 

"What a power of prayer he has, " thought he, as he looked at the oldman. 

He remembered the details of his interview the evening before. "It istrue, " he thought, "that in this monk I find something of the charm ofthat brother Juniper, whose surprising simplicity has come down throughthe ages. "

And he brought to mind the adventures of that Franciscan whom hiscompanions left one day by himself in the convent, telling him toprepare dinner against their return. 

Juniper reflected, "What an amount of time is spent in preparing food!The brothers who take turns in that work have not even time topray"--and desiring to lighten the work of those who should succeed himin the kitchen, he determined to cook such plentiful dishes that thecommunity might dine on them for a fortnight. 

He lighted all the stoves, procured, we are not told how, enormousboilers, filled them with water, threw into them, pell-mell, eggs withtheir shells, chickens with their feathers, vegetables he had neglectedto trim, and before a fire which would roast an ox, he exerted himselfto pile up and stir the ridiculous jumble of his stock-pots. 

When the brothers came home, and sat down in the refectory, he ran, hisface browned and his hands burnt, and joyously served up his stew. Thesuperior asked him if he were not mad, while he remained stupefied thatno one gobbled up this astonishing mess. He declared in all humilitythat he thought he was doing a service to his brethren, and only when heobserved that so much food would be wasted, did he weep hot tears, anddeclare himself a wretch; he cried that he was good for nothing but tospoil the property of Almighty God, while the monks smiled, admiringthis debauch of charity, and the excess of Juniper's simplicity. 

"Brother Simeon would be humble enough and simple enough to renew againsuch splendid jokes, " thought Durtal, "but better still than the goodFranciscan, he recalls the memory of that astonishing Saint Joseph ofCupertino, of whom the oblate spoke yesterday. "

He, who called himself brother Ass, was a charming and poor creature, somodest, and so ignorant, that he was turned away wherever he went. Hepassed through life, with open mouth, thrusting himself eagerly againstall the cloisters that repulsed him. He wandered about unable to performeven the lowest tasks. He was, to use a popular expression, a regularbutter-fingers, and broke whatever he touched. They ordered him to goand fetch water, and he wandered without understanding, absorbed in God, and at the end, when no one thought about it any more, brought someafter a month. 

A monastery of Capucins which had received him, got rid of him. He wenthis way, vaguely, out of his orbit among the towns, stumbled intoanother convent where he employed himself in taking care of the animals, whom he adored, and he rose into a perpetual ecstasy, revealing himselfas the most singular of wonder workers, putting the demons to flight, and healing the sick. He was at once idiotic and sublime; in thehagiography he stands alone, and seems to figure there to furnish aproof that the soul is identified with Eternal Wisdom, rather byignorance than by science. 

"He also loves animals, " said Durtal to himself, as he looked at oldSimeon; "and he too puts to flight the Evil One, and works cures by hissanctity. 

"In a time when all men are exclusively haunted by the thoughts ofluxury and lucre, the soul appears extraordinary when divested of itsbark, as the candid and naked soul of this good monk. He is eighty yearsold and more, and he has led from his youth up the restricted life ofthe Trappists; he probably does not know in what time he lives, nor whatlatitudes he inhabits, whether he is in America or in France, for he hasnever read a newspaper, and outside rumours do not reach him. 

"He does not even know the taste of flesh meat or wine; he has no notionof money, of which he does not suspect the value nor the appearance; hedoes not imagine how a woman is made; and save for the breeding of hispigs, he perhaps cannot even guess the meaning and the consequences ofthe sin of the flesh. 

"He lives alone ringed round by silence, and buried in the shade; hemeditates on the mortifications of the Fathers in the Desert, which areread to him as he eats, and the frenzy of their fasts makes him ashamedof his miserable repast, and he accuses himself that he is so well todo. 

"Ah! this Father Simeon is innocent; he knows nothing that we know, andknows that of which all others are ignorant; his education has beentaken in hand by the Lord Himself, who teaches him truths which wecannot comprehend, models his soul after heaven, infuses Himself intohim, possesses him, and deifies him in the union of Blessedness. 

"This puts us somewhat at a distance from hypocrites and devout persons;as far indeed as modern Catholicism is from Mysticism, for certainlythat religion is as grovelling on the ground as Mysticism is high!

"And that is true. Instead of directing all our forces to that unknownend, of taking our soul to fashion it in that form of a dove which theMiddle Ages gave to the pyxes; instead of making it the shrine where theHost reposes in the very image of the Holy Spirit, the Catholic confineshimself to trying to conceal his conscience, to deceive his Judge by thefear of a salutary hell; he acts not by choice, but by fear: he with theaid of his clergy, and the help of his imbecile literature, and hisfeeble press, has made of religion a mere fetishism, a ridiculousworship composed of statuettes and alms boxes; candles andchromo-lithographs; he has materialized the ideal of Love, in inventingan entirely physical devotion to the Sacred Heart. 

"What baseness of conception!" continued Durtal, who had come out of thechapel, and was strolling along the bank of the great pond. He looked atthe reeds, which bent like an harvest still green, under a puff of wind;then he half saw as he leant forward, an old boat, which bore almosteffaced on its blueish hull the name "Alleluia. " This bark disappearedunder the tufts of leaves round which were twined the bells of theconvolvulus, a symbolic flower, since it widens out like a chalice, andhas the dead white of a wafer. 

The scent of the water, at once enticing and bitter, intoxicated him. "Ah!" he thought, "happiness certainly consists in being restricted to aplace closely locked, a prison very confined, or a chapel always open, "and he caught himself up: "Ah! there is Brother Anacletus;" the laybrother was coming towards him, bending under a hamper. 

He passed before Durtal, smiling at him with his eyes: and while he wenthis way, Durtal thought, "This man is a true friend of mine; when I wassuffering so much before my confession, he expressed all to me in alook. To-day when he believes me serener, and more joyous, he iscontent, and shows it to me by a smile; and I shall never speak to him, I shall never thank him, I shall never even know who he is, I shallperhaps never even see him again. 

"In leaving this place, I shall keep a friend, for whom I too feelaffection; yet neither of us has even exchanged a gesture with theother. 

"After all, " he thought, "does not this absolute reserve make ourfriendship more perfect? it is stamped in the eternal distance, itremains mysterious and incomplete, and more certain. "

While thinking over these reflections, Durtal went towards the chapel, where the Office called him, and thence to the refectory. 

He was surprised to find the table laid only for one. "What has happenedto M. Bruno? Yet I may as well wait a while, " and to kill time, heoccupied himself by reading a printed card, hung upon the wall. 

It was a sort of advertisement which began thus:

 "ETERNITY. 

 "Fellow sinners, you will die. Be ye always ready. 

 "Watch then, pray without ceasing, never forget the Four Last Things which you see here traced

 "Death, the gate of Eternity, Judgment, which decides Eternity, Hell, the abode of unhappy Eternity, Paradise, the abode of blessed Eternity. "

Father Etienne interrupted Durtal, telling him that M. Bruno had gone toSaint Landry to make some purchases, and would only return at bed-timeat eight o'clock. "Dine then without waiting, and make haste, or allyour dishes will be cold. "

"And how is the father abbot?"

"Better, he keeps his room still, but he hopes to be able to come down awhile, the day after to-morrow, and assist at least at some of theoffices. "

And the monk bowed and disappeared. 

Durtal seated himself at table, ate some bean broth, swallowed asoft-boiled egg and a spoonful of warm beans, then once outside, hepassed along the chapel, entered it, and knelt before the altar of theVirgin; but at once the spirit of blasphemy filled him; he wished, whatever it cost him, to insult the Virgin; it seemed to him that hewould experience a sharp joy, an acute pleasure in soiling her; but herestrained himself, he wrinkled his face not to allow the coal-heaver'sabuse, which was on his lips, to escape. 

And he detested these abominations; he revolted against them, stroveagainst them with horror; and the impulse became so irresistible, thatin order to keep silence he was obliged to bite his lips till they bled. 

"This is somewhat strong, " he said, "to hear grumbling in oneself, thecontrary of what one is thinking;" but he had need to call to his helpall his will, he felt that he should yield, and spit out all theseimpurities; wherefore he fled, thinking, that should he find no means ofresistance, it were better to vomit this filth in the court rather thanin the church. 

And so soon as he quitted the chapel this madness of blasphemy ceased;he walked along the pond astonished by the strange violence of theattack. 

Little by little there came to him the unexplained intuition of a dangerthat menaced him. As a beast that scents a hidden enemy, he looked withprecaution within himself, and ended by seeing a black point on thehorizon of his soul, and suddenly, before he had time to reconnoitre, and take account of the danger he saw arising, this point extended, andcovered him with its shadow; there was no more light in him. 

He had that minute of unrest which precedes the storm, and in theanxious silence of his being, arguments fell like drops of rain. 

The painful effects of the Sacrament justified themselves, had he notproceeded in such a way that his communion could not but be unfaithful?Evidently; instead of collecting and straining himself, he had passed anafternoon of revolt and anger; the very evening before he had unworthilyjudged an ecclesiastic whose only wrong was that he took pleasure in thevanity of easy jokes. Had he confessed this injustice, and theserevolts? Not the least in the world; and after the communion still less;had he, as he should have done, shut himself up alone with his Guest? Hehad abandoned Him, without thinking more of Him; had quitted hisinnermost cell, had taken a walk in the wood, had not even been presentat the Offices. 

"But come, come, this blame is foolish. I communicated, just as I was, on the formal order of the confessor; as for the walk, I did not ask forit nor wish for it. M. Bruno, in agreement with the abbot of La Trappe, decided it would do me good; I have then nothing to reproach myselfwith; I am blameless. 

"This does not prove that you would not have done better to spend theday in prayer, in the church. 

"But, " he cried, "with such a system one could not move, one could noteat, nor sleep, for one should never leave the church. There must betime for everything, or the devil take it all!

"No doubt, but a more diligent soul would have refused that excursion, just because it was pleasant; would have avoided it, out ofmortification, in a spirit of penance. "

"Evidently, but" ... These scruples tortured him; "the fact is, " hesaid, "I might have employed my afternoon more wholesomely than that;"to believe that he had spent it ill was but a step, and he made it. Hepelted himself for an hour, sweating with agony, heaping on himselfimaginary sins, and entering so far on that road that he ended bysuddenly realizing his position and understanding he was out of theright track. 

The story of the rosary returned to his memory, and then he blamedhimself for allowing himself to be again driven into a corner by thedemon. He began to breathe again, to regain his footing, when otherattacks equally formidable presented themselves. 

It was no longer an insinuation of arguments which ran drop by drop, buta furious rain, which threw itself like an avalanche on his soul. Thestorm, of which the wave of scruples was only the prelude, burst in itsfulness; and in the panic of the first moment, in the violence of thetempest, the enemy unmasked his batteries, and struck him to the heart. 

He had got no good from that communion, but he was also too young at it. Ah! indeed, was he to believe that because a priest uttered five Latinwords over a bit of unleavened bread, that bread was transubstantiatedinto the flesh of Christ? That a child should accept such nonsense, might be possible, but that a man past forty should listen to suchformidable shams, was excessive; almost disquieting. 

And these insinuations lashed him like hail showers: how could breadmade of wheat before, have only the appearance of wheat afterwards; whatis flesh that is neither seen nor felt; what is a body, which has suchubiquity as to be at the same time on the altars of divers countries;what is that power which is annihilated when the Host is not made ofpure wheat?

And this became a regular deluge which overwhelmed him, and yet like animpenetrable pile, that Faith he had acquired without ever having knownhow, remained immovable, disappeared under torrents of interrogation, but never stirred. 

He revolted, and said to himself: "This only proves that the sacramentaldarkness of the Eucharist cannot be sounded. Moreover, if it wereintelligible, it would not be divine. If the God whom we serve could becomprehended by reason, He could not be worth the trouble of serving, said Tauler; and the 'Imitation' declares plainly also at the end of theIVth book that if the works of God were such as man's intelligence couldeasily grasp, they would cease to be marvellous, and could not bequalified as ineffable. "

And a mocking voice replied, "That is what you call answering, avowing that there is nothing toanswer. "

"In fact, " said Durtal, who reflected, "I have been present atspiritualistic experiences, where no trickery was possible. It was quiteevident that there was no fluid from the spectators, no suggestion ofpersons surrounding the table who dictated the responses; then in givingits raps, the table expressed itself suddenly in English, though no onespoke that language, then a few minutes later, addressing itself to me, who was at a distance from it, and consequently was not touching it, ittold me this time in French, facts which I had forgotten, and I alonecould know. I am then certainly obliged to suppose an element of thesupernatural, using a table in guise of an interpreter, to accept if notthe evocation of the dead, but at least the proved existence of ghosts. 

"Then it is not more impossible, more surprising that Christ shouldsubstitute Himself for a piece of bread, than that a ghost should hideand brag in the foot of a table. These phenomena equally put our sensesto rout; but if one of them be undeniable, and spiritualisticmanifestation certainly is so, what motives can we invoke to deny theother, which is moreover attested by thousands of saints?

"After all, " he went on with a smile, "we have already demonstration bythe absurd, but this may be called demonstration by the abject, for ifthe Eucharistic mystery is sublime, it is not the same withspiritualism, which is after all only the latrine of the supernatural!"

"If this were the only enigma, " began the voice again, "but all theCatholic doctrines are on the same model; examine religion from itsbirth, and see if it do not always issue by an absurd dogma. 

"Here is a God, infinitely perfect, infinitely good, a God who is notignorant of past, present, or future. He knew then that Eve would sin;therefore of two things, one; either He is not good, in that Hesubmitted her to that proof knowing that she had not power to stand it;or again, He was not certain of her defeat; in that case He is notomniscient, He is not perfect. "

Durtal gave no answer to this dilemma; which is in fact difficult toresolve. 

"Yet, " he thought, "we may at once exclude one of these twopropositions, the latter; for it is childish to concern ourselves aboutthe future, when we have to do with God; we judge Him by our miserableunderstanding, and there is for Him neither present nor past, norfuture; He sees them all at the same moment in light uncreate. For Himdistance has no figure, and space is nought. It is consequentlyimpossible to doubt that the Serpent will conquer. This amputateddilemma is then out of order. "

"Be it so, but the other alternative remains; what do you make of Hisgoodness?"

"His goodness?" And Durtal had need to repeat again the arguments drawnfrom free will, and the promised coming of the Saviour; and he wasobliged to admit that these answers were weak. 

And the voice became more pressing, "Then you admit original sin?"

"I am obliged to admit it, because it exists. What are heredity andatavism, save, under another name, the terrible sin of the beginning?"

"And does it appear to you just that innocent generations should makeamends now and always for the sin of the first man?"

And as Durtal did not reply, the voice insinuated gently, "This law is so iniquitous that it seems as if the Creator were ashamedof it, and that in order to punish Himself for His ferocity, and not tomake Himself for ever execrated by His creature, He wished to suffer onthe Cross, and expiate His crime in the person of His own Son. "

"But, " cried Durtal, exasperated, "God could not commit a crime andpunish Himself: were that so, Jesus would be the Redeemer of His Father, and not ours; it is madness!"

Little by little he recovered his balance; he recited slowly theApostles' Creed, while the objections which demolished it, pressed oneafter the other within him. 

"There is one fact certain, " he said to himself, for in all thistumult, he was perfectly lucid, "that for the moment we are two personsin one. I can follow my reasonings, and I hear on the other side, thesophisms my double breathes in me. This duality has never appeared soclear to me. "

And the attack grew feebler, on this reflection; it might have beenbelieved that the enemy now discovered was beating a retreat. 

But nothing of the kind; after a short truce, the assault began again onanother point. 

"Are you very sure that you have not suggested and shown the blow toyourself? By having wished, you have ended by begetting belief, and byimplanting in yourself a fixed idea, disguised under the name of grace, round which everything now clings. You complain that you did notexperience sensible joys after your communion; this simply proves thatyou were not careful enough, or that, tired by the excess of the eveningbefore, your imagination showed itself unready to play the infatuatingfairy story you expected from yourself after the mass. 

"Moreover, you ought to know that in these questions all depends on themore or less feverish activity of the brain and the senses; see whattakes place in the case of women, who deceive themselves more easilythan men; for that again declares the difference of conformations, thevariety between the sexes; Christ gives Himself carnally under theappearances of bread; that is mystical marriage, the divine unionconsummated by the way of the lips; He is indeed the spouse of women, while we men, without willing it, by the very lodestone of our nature, are more attracted by the Virgin. But she does not give herself, likeher Son, to us; she does not reside in the Sacrament; possession is inher case impossible; she is our Mother, but she is not our Spouse, as heis the Spouse of virgins. 

"We conceive, therefore, that women are more violently duped, that theyadore better, and imagine more easily the more they are petted. Moreover, M. Bruno said to you yesterday, 'Woman is more passive, lessrebellious to the action of Heaven ... '

"Well, what has that to do with me; what does that prove? that the morewe love the better we are loved: but if that axiom is false, from theearthly point of view, it is certainly exact from the divine point ofview; which would be monstrous, and would come to this, that the Lordwould not treat the soul of a Poor Clare better than mine. "

There was again a time of rest, and the attack turned and rushed on anew place. 

"Then you believe in an eternal hell? You suppose a God more cruel thanyourself, a God who has created people, without their having beenconsulted, without their having asked to be born; and after havingsuffered during their existence, they will be again punished withoutmercy after their death; but consider, if you were to see your worstenemy in torture, you would be taken by pity, and would ask pardon forhim. You would pardon, and the Almighty be implacable; you will admitthis is to have a singular idea of Him. "

Durtal was silent; hell going on infinitely became in fact wearisome. The reply that it is legitimate, that punishment should be infinite, because rewards are so, was not decisive, since indeed it were theproperty of perfect goodness, to abridge the chastisements and prolongthe joys. 

"But, in fact, " he said to himself, "Saint Catherine of Genoa haselucidated the question. She explains very well that God sends a ray ofmercy, a current of pity into hell, that no damned soul suffers as muchas it deserves to suffer; that if expiation ought not to cease, it maybe modified, and weakened, and become at length less rigorous, lessintense. 

"She remarks also, that at the moment of its separation from the body, the soul becomes obstinate or yields; if it remain hardened and shows nocontrition for its faults, its guilt cannot be remitted, since, afterdeath, free will subsists no more; the will which we possess at themoment of quitting the world remains invariable. 

"If, on the contrary, it does not persist in those impenitentsentiments, a part of the repression will no doubt be removed; andconsequently is not devoted to a continual gehenna, as that whichdeliberately, while there is yet time, will not return to amendment, refuses in fact to lay aside its sins. 

"Let us add that according to the saint, God does not even make the soulempty to be never polluted by sin, for it goes there of itself; it isled there by the very nature of its sins, it flings itself in as intoits own good; is, if one may say so, naturally engulfed there. 

"In fact we may imagine to ourselves a very small hell, and a very largepurgatory; may imagine that hell is scantily peopled, is only reservedfor cases of rare wickedness, that in reality the crowd of disincarnatesouls presses into Purgatory and there endures punishments proportionedto the misdeeds it has willed here below. These ideas have nothing whichcannot be sustained, and they have the advantage of being in accord withthe ideas of mercy and justice. "

"Exactly, " replied the voice in railing tones. "Man then will do well toconstrain himself; he may steal, rob, kill his father, and violate hisdaughter; the price is the same; provided he repent at the last minute, he is saved!"

"But no, contrition takes away the eternity of punishment only, and notpunishment itself; everyone must be punished or rewarded according tohis works. He who will be soiled by a parricide or an incest will bear achastisement different in pain and length to him who has not committedthem; equality in expiatory suffering, in reparative pain, does notexist. 

"Moreover this idea of a purgative life after death is so natural, socertain, that all religions assume it. All consider the soul is a sortof air balloon, which cannot mount and attain its last end in spaceexcept by throwing away its ballast. In the religions of the East, thesoul is re-incarnistic; in order to purify itself it rubs itself againsta new body, like a blade in sandstone troughs, to brighten it. For usCatholics it undergoes no terrestrial avatar, but it lightens and scoursitself, clears itself in the Purgatory, where God transforms it, drawsit out, extracts it little by little from the dross of its sins, till itcan raise itself and lose itself in Him. 

"To have done with this irritating question of a perpetual hell, why notconceive that divine justice hesitates in the majority of cases topronounce inexorable decrees? Humanity is for the most part composed ofunconscious rascals and fools, who do not take any count of the reach oftheir faults. These are saved by their complete want of comprehension. As for others who rot, knowing what they do, they are evidently moreblameworthy, but society which hates superior beings takes on itselftheir punishment, humiliates and persecutes them; and it is thereforeallowed us to hope that our Lord will pity these poor souls so miserablypelted during their stay upon earth by a horde of fools. "

"Then there is every advantage in being imbecile, since one is sparedboth on earth and in heaven?"

"Ah! certainly, and yet ... And yet.... What is the good of discussion, since we cannot frame for ourselves the least idea of the infinitejustice of a God?"

"Moreover, this is enough, these debates overwhelm me. " He tried todistract his thoughts from these subjects, and would feign to break theobsession, betake himself to Paris; but five minutes had not passedbefore his double returned to the charge. 

He entered once more on that halting dilemma which had so recentlyassailed the goodness of the Creator in regard to the sins of man. "Purgatory is then exorbitant, for after all, " said he, "God knew thatman would yield to temptations; then why allow them, and above all whycondemn them? Is that goodness, is that justice?"

"But it is a sophism, " cried Durtal, growing angry. "God has left toevery man his liberty; no one is tempted beyond his power. If in certaincases, he allows the seduction to overpass our means of resistance, itis to recall us to humility, to bring us back to Him by remorse, forother causes which we know not, which it is not His business to show us. Then probably those transgressions are appreciated in a different way tothose which we have practised with our full accord. "

"The liberty of man! it is a pretty thing. Yes, let us speak of it, andatavism, and our surroundings and diseases of the brain, and of themarrow. Is a man driven by the impulses of sickness, overwhelmed bytroubles of the generative organs, responsible for his acts?"

"But what can be said if under these conditions these acts are imputedto him on high. It is after all idiotic always to compare divine justiceto man's tribunals; for it is exactly the contrary; human judgments areoften so infamous that they attest the existence of another equity. Rather than the proofs of a theodicy, the magistrature proves God; forwithout Him, how can be satisfied that instinct of justice so innate ineach of us, that even the humblest beast possesses it?"

"Yet, " replied the voice, "all this does not hinder the change ofcharacter according as the stomach does its work ill or well; slander, anger, envy are accumulated bile, or faulty digestion; good temper, joy, come from a free circulation of blood, the expansion of the body atwill; mystics are anemo-nervous people; your ecstatics are hystericalpatients badly-fed, madhouses are full of them; they depend on sciencewhen visions begin. "

All at once Durtal recovered himself, the material arguments were butlittle disquieting, for none could remain standing: all confounded thefunction and the organ, the lodger and the lodging, the clock and thehour. Their assertions rested on no base. To liken the happy lucidityand unequalled genius of a Saint Teresa to the extravagances ofnymphomaniacs and other mad women were so obtuse, so clumsy, that itcould only raise a smile!

The mystery would remain complete; no doctor has been able to discoveror could discover the psyche in those round or fusiform cells, in thewhite matter or grey substance of the brain. They would recognize moreor less justly the organs which the soul uses to pull the strings of thepuppet, which it is condemned to move, but itself remains invisible; ithas gone, when after death they force open the rooms of its habitation. 

"No; these newsmongers have no effect on me, " Durtal assured himself. 

"But does this one do any better? Do you believe in the utility of life, in the necessity of this endless chain, this towage of sufferings, to beprolonged for the most part after death? True goodness would haveconsisted in inventing nothing, creating nothing, in leaving all as itwas, in nothingness, in peace. "

The attack turned round on itself, and after apparent variations, returned always to the same starting point. 

Durtal lowered his head, for this argument dismasted him; all thereplies which could be imagined were remarkably weak, and the leastfeeble, that which consists in denying to ourselves the right to judgebecause we only see the details of the divine plan, because we canpossess no general view of it cannot avail against that terrible phraseof Schopenhauer: "If God made the world I would not be that God, forthe misery of the world would break my heart!"

"There is no haggling in the matter, " he said to himself. "I can quiteunderstand that sorrow is the true disinfectant of souls, yet I amobliged to ask myself why the Creator has not invented a less atrociousway of purifying us?

"Ah! when I think of the sufferings shut up in madhouses, and hospitalwards, I am revolted, and inclined to doubt everything. 

"If, again, grief were an antiseptic for future misdeeds or a detersivefor past faults, one might again understand, but now it fallsindifferently on the bad and on the good; it is blind. The best proof isthe Virgin who was without spot, and who had not like her Son to expiatefor us. She consequently ought not to be punished; yet she too underwentat the foot of Calvary the punishment exacted by this horrible law. 

"Good; but then, " replied Durtal, after a silence of reflection, "if theinnocent Virgin has given us an example, by what right do we who areculpable dare to complain?

"No; we must therefore resolve to dwell in darkness, to live surroundedby enigmas. Money, love, nothing is clear; chance if it exist is asmysterious as Providence, and indeed still more so; it is inexplicable. God is at least an origin of the unknown, a key. 

"An origin which is itself another secret, a key which opens nothing!

"Ah! it is irritating, " he said to himself, "to be thus harassed inevery sense. Enough of it; besides these are questions which atheologian is alone able to discuss; I am unarmed, the game is notequal; I will not answer any more. "

And he could not but hear a vague laughter which arose in him. 

He quitted the garden, and directed his steps towards the chapel, butthe fear of being seized again by the madness of blasphemy turned himaway from it. Knowing not whither to go, he regained his cell, saying tohimself, that he ought not to wrangle thus; yes, but how could he helphearing the cavils which rose he knew not whence? He almost shoutedaloud: "Be silent, let the other speak!"

When he was in his chamber he desired to pray, and fell on his knees athis bedside. 

This was abominable; for memories of Florence recurred to him. He rose, but the old aberrations returned. 

He thought of that creature, her strange tastes, her mania for bitinghis ears, for drinking toilet scents in little glasses, for nibblingbread and butter with caviare, and dates. She was so wild, and sostrange; a fool no doubt, but obscure. 

"And if she were in this room, before you, what would you do?"

He stammered to himself: "I would try not to yield. "

"You lie; admit then that you would send your conversion, the monastery, all, to the devil. "

He grew pale at the thought; the possibility of his cowardice was apunishment. To have communicated, when one was no more certain of thefuture, no more certain of oneself, was almost a sacrilege, he thought. 

And he became angry. Up till now he had kept right, but the vision ofFlorence subdued him. He threw himself, in desperation, on a chair, nolonger knowing what would become of him, gathering what of courageremained to him to descend to the church, where the Office wasbeginning. 

He dragged himself there, and held himself down, assailed by filthytemptations, disgusted with himself, feeling his will yielding, woundedin every part. 

And when he was in the court he remained overwhelmed, asking himselfwhere he could take shelter. Every place had become hostile to him; inhis cell were carnal memories, outside were temptations against Faith, "or rather, " he cried, "I carry these with me always. My God, my God! Iwas yesterday so tranquil. "

He strolled by chance into an alley, when a new phenomenon arose. 

He had had, up to this hour, in the sky within him, a rain of scruples, a tempest of doubts, a thunderstroke of lust; now was silence and death. 

Complete darkness was within him. 

He sought his soul by groping for it, and found it inert, withoutconsciousness, almost icy. He had a body living and healthy; all hisintelligence, all his reason, and his other powers, his other faculties, were benumbed little by little, and stopped. In his being there wasmanifested an effect at once analogous and contrary to that which curaraproduces on the organism, when it circulates in the network of theblood; the members are paralyzed, no pain is experienced, but coldrises, the soul ends by being sequestered alive in a corpse; in thiscase it was the living body that detained a dead soul. 

Harassed by fear, he disengaged himself with a supreme effort, he wouldmake a visit to himself, see where he was, and like a sailor whodescends into the hold in a ship that has sprung a leak, he had to stepbackwards, for the gangway was cut, the steps opened upon an abyss. 

In spite of the terror which rushed upon him, he hung fascinated overthe hole, and by fixing the black point he distinguished appearances; ina light as of eclipse in rarefied air, he perceived at the basis ofhimself the panorama of his soul, a desert twilight on the horizons thatapproached the night, and under this doubtful light there seemedsomething like bare fields, a marsh heaped with rubbish and cinders; theplace of the sins torn up by the confessor remained visible, but besidesthe dry darnel of dead vices which grew still, nothing budded. 

He saw himself exhausted; he knew that he had no further force toextirpate the last roots, and he fancied that he had again to sow theseed of virtues, to till this arid soil, manure this dead ground. Hefelt himself incapable of all work, and had at the same time theconviction that God rejected him, that God would aid him no more. Thiscertainty tore him to pieces. It could not be expressed, for nothingcould translate the anxiety, the anguish of a state through which hemust have passed who could understand it. The terror of a child who hasnever left its mother's petticoats, and who is deserted, withoutwarning, in the open country in a fog, could only give a vestige of anidea of it, and again by reason of his age the child after having feltdesolate would end by growing calmer, by distracting himself from hisgrief, no longer seeing the danger which surrounds him, while in thisstate is danger, clinging and absolute, the immovable thought ofabandonment, obstinate fear, which nothing diminishes, nothing appeases. 

One dare not advance nor retreat; rather cast oneself on the ground, with bowed head, and wait the end of what we know not, and be assuredthat the menaces we ignore, and those at which we guess, are removed. Durtal was at this point; he could not return on his steps, for the wayhe had quitted horrified him. He would rather have died than return toParis, there to begin again his carnal experiences, to live again hishours of libertinage and lassitude; but if he could not again retracehis road, neither could he advance, for the road ended in a blind alley. If earth repulsed him, heaven at the same time was closed for him. 

He was lying, half on his side, in the darkness, in the shade, he knewnot where. 

And this state was aggravated by an absolute failure to understand thecauses which brought him there, was exaggerated by the memory of gracesbefore received. 

Durtal remembered the sweetness of the beginning, the caress of thedivine touches, the steady progress without obstacles, the encounterwith a solitary priest, his being sent to La Trappe, the very ease withwhich he bent to the monastic life, the absolution which had such trulysensible effects, the rapid and clear answer that he might communicatewithout fear. 

And suddenly, without his will, he had in fact failed. He who had tillthen held him by the hand, refused to guide him, cast him off into thedarkness without a word. 

"All is over, " he thought; "I am condemned to float here below, like awaif which no one wants; no shore is henceforward accessible, for if theworld refuses me, I disgust God. Ah! Lord, remember the garden ofGethsemani, the tragic defection of the Father whom Thou didst implorein unspeakable pangs. " In the silence which received his cry he gaveway, and yet he desired to react against this desolation, endeavoured toescape from his despair; he prayed, and had again that very precisesensation that his petitions did not carry, were not even heard. Hecalled her who superintends allegiance, the Mediatrix of pardon, to hisaid, and he was persuaded that the Virgin heard him no longer. 

He was silent and discouraged, while the shade grew still more dense, and complete darkness covered him. He did not then suffer any longer inthe true sense of the word, but it was worse, for this was annihilationin the void, the giddiness of a man who is bent over a gulf; and thescraps of reasoning which he could gather and knit together in thisbreaking up, ended by branching out into scruples. 

He sought for any sins which since his communion might justify such atrial, and he could not find them. He even tried to magnify his smallfaults, enlarge his want of patience; he wished to convince himself thathe had taken a certain pleasure in finding the image of Florence in hiscell, and he tortured himself so violently that he reanimated the soul, which had half fainted, by these moxas, and placed it again, withoutwishing it, in that acute state of scruples, in which it was when thecrisis declared itself. 

And in these brawling reflections he did not lose the sad faculty ofanalysis. He said to himself while gauging himself at a glance: "I amlike the litter in a circus, trodden down by all the sorrows which goand come to play their parts. Doubts about Faith, which seemed tostretch into every sense, turned in fact in the same circle. And nowscruples, from which I thought myself freed, reappear and course throughme. "

How should he explain this? Was he who inflicted this torture on him theSpirit of Malice, or God?

That he had been bruised by the Evil One was certain, the very nature ofhis attacks showed his handiwork, but how could this abandonment of Godbe explained, for in fact, the Demon could not prevent the Saviour fromassisting him, and he was quite obliged to conclude that if he weremartyrized by the one, the Other took no interest in him, let him be, and retired from him completely?

This certainty deduced from precise observations, this reasonedassurance, finished him. He cried out from the anguish of it, looking atthe pond by which he was walking, wishing he might fall in, thinkingthat death by drowning were preferable to such a life. 

Then he trembled before the water which attracted him, and carried awayhis sorrows to the charm of the woods. He tried to wear himself out bylong walking, but he wearied himself without effect, and he ended bysinking down worn and broken at the refectory table. 

He looked at his plate, with no courage to eat, no desire to drink; hebreathed hard, and, exhausted as he was, could not keep in one place. Herose and wandered in the court till Compline, and there in the chapel, where at least he hoped to find some solace, was the crowning point ofall; the mine went off; the soul, sapped since the morning, exploded. 

On his knees, desolate, he tried again to invoke help, and nothing came;he choked, immured in so deep a trench, under a vault so thick, thatevery appeal was stifled, and no sound vibrated. Without courage, hewept with his head in his hands, and while he complained to God that Hehad brought him thither to punish him in a Trappist monastery, ignoblevisions assailed him. 

Fluids passed before his face, and peopled the space with priapisms. Hedid not see them with the eyes of his body, which were in no degreehallucinated, but perceived them outside him, and felt them within him;in a word, the touch was external, and the vision internal. 

He tried to gaze on the statue of Saint Joseph, before which he kepthimself, and to see nothing but it, but his eyes seemed to revolve, tosee only within, and were filled with indecencies. It was a medley ofapparitions with undecided outlines, and confused colours, which gainedprecision only in those parts coveted by the secular infamy of man. Andthis changed again. The human forms vanished. There remained only, ininvisible landscapes of flesh, marshes reddened by the fires of whatsunset it was impossible to say, marshes shuddering under the dividedshelter of the grasses. Then the sensual spot grew smaller still, butremained, and this time did not move; it was the growth of an uncleanflood, the spreading of the daisy of darkness, the unfolding of thelotos of the caverns, hidden at the bottom of the valley. 

And there, burning gasps excited Durtal, enwrapped him, stifled him withfurious gasps which drank his mouth. 

He looked in spite of himself, unable to withdraw himself from theoutrages imposed by these violations, but the body was still andremained calm, while the soul revolted with a groan; the temptation wasthen of no effect; but if the tricks only succeeded in suggesting to himdisgust and horror, they made him suffer beyond measure, while theydelayed; all the days of his shameful existence came to the surface, allthese enticements to greedy desires crucified him. Joined to the sum ofsorrows accumulated since the dawn, the overcharge of these sorrowsoverwhelmed him, and a cold sweat bathed him from head to foot. 

He was in agony, and suddenly, as though he had come to overlook hisministers, and to see if his orders were carried out, the executionerhimself entered on the scene. Durtal did not see him, but felt him, andit was indescribable. Since he had the impression of a real demoniacpresence, his whole soul trembled and desired to fly, like a terrifiedbird that clings to the window-panes. 

And it fell back exhausted; then unlikely as it may appear, the parts ofhis life were inverted, the body was upright, and held its own, commanding the terrified soul, repressed this panic in a furioustension. 

Durtal perceived very plainly and clearly for the first time thedistinction, the separation of the soul from the body, and for the firsttime also, he was conscious of the phenomenon of a body, which had sotortured its companion by its needs and wants, to forget all its hatredin the common danger, and hinder her who resisted it, the habit ofsinking. 

He saw that in a flash, and suddenly all vanished. It seemed that theDemon had taken himself off, the wall of darkness which encompassedDurtal opened, and light issued from all parts; with an immense impulsethe "Salve Regina, " springing up from the choir, swept aside thephantoms, and put the goblins to flight. 

The elevated cordial of this chant restored him. He took courage, andbegan again to hope that this frightful desertion might cease; heprayed, and his petitions found vent; he understood that they were atlast heard. 

The Office was at an end; he gained the guest-house, and when heappeared so worn out and pale before Father Etienne and the oblate, theycried: "What is the matter with you?"

He sank on a chair, and endeavoured to describe to them the terribleCalvary he had climbed. "This has lasted, " he said, "for more than ninehours; I wonder that I have not gone mad;" and he added, "Yet I nevercould have believed that the soul could suffer so much. "

The face of the father was illuminated. He pressed Durtal's hands andsaid, "Rejoice, my brother, you have been treated here like a monk. "

"How is that?" said Durtal, surprised. 

"Yes, this agony, for there is no other word to define the horror of thestate, is one of the most serious trials which God inflicts on us; it isone of the operations of the purgative life. Be happy, for it is a greatgrace which Jesus does to you. "

"And this proves that your conversion is good, " affirmed the oblate. 

"God! But it was not He at any rate who insinuated doubts about theFaith, who caused to be born in me that madness of scruples, who raisedin me that spirit of blasphemy, who caressed my face with disgustingapparitions. "

"No, but He allows it. It is frightful, I know it, " said theguest-master. "God conceals Himself, and however you may call on Him, Hedoes not answer you. You think yourself deserted, yet He is very nearyou; and while He effaces Himself, Satan advances. He twists you about, places a microscope over your faults, his malice gnaws your brain like adull file, and when to all this are joined, to try you to the utmost, impure visions.... "

The Trappist stopped; then, speaking to himself, he said, slowly, "It would be nothing to be in presence of a real temptation, of a truewoman in flesh and bone, but these appearances on which imaginationworks, are horrible!"

"And I used to think there was peace in the cloister!"

"No, we are here on this earth to strive, and it is just in the cloisterthat the Lowest works; there, souls escape him, and he will at all priceconquer them. No place on earth is more haunted by him than a cell, noone is more harassed than a monk. "

"A story which is told in the Lives of the Fathers in the Desert, istypical from this point of view. One demon only was charged to watch atown; and he went to sleep while two or three hundred demons who hadorders to guard a monastery had no rest, but behaved themselves, here isthe place for the phrase, like very devils. 

"And indeed, the mission to increase the sin of the towns is a sinecure, for Satan holds them, though they are not aware of it; all then he hasto do is to torment them so as to take from them trust in God, since allobey him without his taking the least trouble about it. 

"And so he keeps his legions to besiege convents where resistance isdetermined. And indeed, you see the way in which he conducts theattack. "

"Ah!" exclaimed Durtal, "it is not he who makes you suffer the most; forwhat is worse than scruples, worse than temptations against purity, oragainst the Faith, is the supposed abandonment of Heaven; no, nothingcan describe that. "

"That is what mystical theology calls 'the Night Obscure, '" answered M. Bruno. 

And Durtal exclaimed, "Ah! now I am with you; I remember.... That is why Saint John of theCross declares that it is impossible to describe the sorrows of thatnight, and why he exaggerates nothing when he says, that one is thenplunged alive into hell. 

"And I doubted the veracity of his books, I accused him of excess;rather he minimized. Only one must have felt this oneself to believeit. "

"And you have seen nothing, " the oblate replied quietly; "you havepassed through the first portion of that night, through the night of thesenses; it is terrible enough, as I know by experience, but it isnothing in comparison with the Night of the Spirit which sometimessucceeds it. That is the exact image of the sufferings which our Lordendured in the Garden of Olives, when, sweating blood, He cried at theend of His force, 'Lord, let this chalice pass from me. '

"This is so terrible ... " and M. Bruno was silent and grew pale. "Whoever has undergone that martyrdom, " he said, after a pause, "knowsbeforehand what awaits the damned in another life. "

"But, " said the monk, "the hour of bed-time has struck. There exists butone remedy for all these evils, the Holy Eucharist; to-morrow, Sunday, the community approaches the Sacrament; you must join us. "

"But I cannot communicate in the state in which I am.... "

"Well, then, be up to-night, at three o'clock. I will come for you toyour cell, and will take you to Father Maximin, who confesses us at thattime. "

And without waiting for his answer, the guest-master pressed his handand went. 

"He is right, " said the oblate; "it is the true remedy. "

And when he had regained his room, Durtal thought, "I now understand why the Abbé Gévresin made such a point of lending meSaint John of the Cross; he knew that I should enter into the 'NightObscure'; he did not dare warn me clearly, for fear of alarming me, andyet he would put me on my guard against despair, and aid me by theremembrance here of that reading. Only how could he think that in such ashipwreck I should remember anything!

"All this makes me think that I have omitted to write to him, and thatto-morrow I must keep my promise by sending him a letter. "

And he thought again of Saint John of the Cross, that extraordinaryCarmelite who described so placidly that terrible phase of the mysticgenesis. 

He took count of the lucidity, the power of spirit of this saint, explaining the most obscure vicissitude of the soul and the least known, catching and following the operations of God, who dealt with that soul, pressed it in His hands, squeezed it like a sponge, then let it suck upagain, fill itself out with sorrows, then wrung it again; making it driptears of blood to cleanse it. 

CHAPTER VI. 

"No, " said Durtal, in a whisper, "I will not take the place of thesegood people. "

"But I assure you it is quite the same to them. "

And while Durtal was still refusing to go before the lay brothers whowere waiting their turn for confession, Father Etienne insisted: "I willstay with you, and as soon as the cell is free, you will enter. "

Durtal was then on the landing of a staircase on every step of which wasposted a brother kneeling or standing, his head wrapped in his hood, hisface turned to the wall. All were sifting and closely examining theirsouls. 

"Of what sins can they really accuse themselves?" thought Durtal. "Whoknows?" he continued, perceiving Brother Anacletus, his head sunk on hisbreast, and his hands joined, "who knows if he does not reproach himselffor the discreet affection he has for me; for in monasteries allfriendship is forbidden!"

And he called to memory in the "Way of Perfection" of Saint Teresa, apage at once glowing and icy in which she cries out on the nothingnessof human ties, declares that friendship is a weakness, and assertsclearly that every nun who desires to see her relations is imperfect. 

"Come, " said Father Etienne, who interrupted these reflections, andpushed him towards the door of the cell out of which a monk came. FatherMaximin was there, seated close to a prie-Dieu. 

Durtal knelt, and told him briefly his scruples and strifes of theevening before. 

"What has happened to you is not surprising after a conversion; indeed, it is a good sign, for those persons alone for whom God has views aresubmitted to these proofs, " said the monk slowly, when Durtal had endedhis story. 

And he continued, "Now that you have no more grave sins, the Demon endeavours to drown youby spitting at you. In fact, in these episodes of malice at bay, thereis for you temptation and no sin. 

"You have, if I may sum up what you have said, undergone temptation ofthe flesh, and of Faith, and you have been tortured by scruples. 

"Let us leave on one side the sensual visions; such as they have beenwere produced independently of your will, painful no doubt, butineffectual. 

"Doubts about Faith are more dangerous. 

"Steep yourself in this truth that besides prayer there exists but oneefficacious remedy against this evil, to despise it. 

"Satan is pride; despise him, and at once his audacity gives way; hespeaks; shrug your shoulders and he is silent. You must not discuss withhim; however good a reasoner you may be, you will be worsted, for he isa most tricky dialectician. "

"Yes, but what can I do? I do not wish to listen to him, but I hear himall the same. I was obliged to answer him if only to refute him. "

"And it was just on that he counted to subdue you; keep this carefullyin your mind; in order to let you give him an easy throw, he willpresent you at need grotesque arguments, and so soon as he sees youconfident, simply satisfied with the excellence of your replies, he willinvolve you in sophisms so specious that you will fight in vain to solvethem. 

"No; I repeat to you, had you the best reasons to oppose to him, do notriposte, refuse the strife. "

The prior was silent; then he began again, quietly, "There are two ways of getting rid of a thing which troubles you--tothrow it far away, or let it fall. To throw it to a distance demands aneffort of which one may not be capable; to let it fall imposes nofatigue, is simple, without danger, within the reach of all. 

"To throw to a distance implies again a certain interest, a certainanimation, perhaps even a certain fear; to let it fall is indifference, complete contempt; believe me, use this means and Satan will fly. 

"This weapon of contempt will be also all-powerful to conquer theassault of scruples, if in combats of this nature the person assailedsees clear. Unfortunately, the peculiarity of scruples is to alarmpeople, to make them lose at once the clearing breeze, and then it isindispensable to have recourse to a priest to defend oneself. 

"Indeed, " pursued the monk, who had interrupted himself a moment tothink--"the closer one looks the less one sees; one becomesshort-sighted the moment one observes; it is necessary to place oneselfat a certain point of view to distinguish objects, for when they arevery close they become as confused as if they were far. Therefore insuch a case we must have recourse to the confessor, who is neither toodistant, nor too near, who holds himself precisely at the spot whereobjects detach themselves in their relief. Only it is with scruples aswith certain maladies which, when they are not taken in time, becomealmost incurable. 

"Do not allow them, then, to become implanted in you; scruple cannotresist being told as soon as it begins. The moment you formulate itbefore the priest it dissolves; it is a kind of mirage which a wordeffaces. 

"You will object to me, " continued the monk, after a silence, "that itis very mortifying to avow delusions which generally are absurd; but itis for this very reason that the demon suggests to you less cleverarguments than foolish. He takes hold of you thus by vanity, by falseshame. "

The monk was silent again; then he continued, "Scruples not treated, scruples not cured, lead to discouragement whichis the worst of temptations; for in other cases Satan attacks one virtueonly in particular, and he shows himself; while in this case he attacksall at once, and he hides himself. 

"And this is so true that if you are seduced by lust, by the love ofmoney, or by pride, you can, in examining yourself, give yourselfaccount of the nature of the temptation which exhausts you; indiscouragement, on the contrary, your understanding is obscured to sucha degree that you do not even suspect that the state in which yousuccumb is only a diabolic manoeuvre which you must combat; and you letgo all, you give up the only arm which can save you, prayer, from whichthe demon turns you aside as a vain thing. 

"Never hesitate, then, to cut the evil at its root, to take care of ascruple as soon as it is born. 

"Now tell me; you have nothing else to confess?"

"No, except the indesire for the Eucharist, the languor in which I nowfaint. "

"There is some fatigue in your case, for no one can endure such a shockwith impunity; do not be uneasy about that, have confidence, do notattempt to present yourself before God all neat and trim; go to Himsimply, naturally, in undress even, just as you are; do not forget thatif you are a servant you are also a son; have good courage, our Lordwill dispel all these nightmares. "

And when he had received absolution, Durtal went down to the church toawait the hour of mass. 

And when the moment for communion came, he followed M. Bruno behind thelay brothers. All were kneeling on the pavement, and one after the otherrose to exchange the kiss of peace, and reach the altar. 

Though he repeated to himself the counsels of Father Maximin, though heexhorted himself to dismiss all his unrest, Durtal could not helpthinking as he saw these monks approach the Table, "The Lord will find achange when I advance in my turn; after having descended into thesanctuaries, He will be reduced to visit hovel. " And sincerely, humbly, he was sorry for Him. 

And as the first time that he approached this peace-giving mystery, heexperienced a sensation of stifling, as if his heart were too large whenhe returned to his place. As soon as the mass was over, he quitted thechapel and escaped into the park. 

Then gently, without sensible effects, the Sacrament worked; Christopened, little by little, his closed house and gave it air, lightentered into Durtal in a flood. From the windows of his senses which hadlooked till then into he knew not what cesspool, into what enclosure, dank, and steeped in shadow; he now looked suddenly, through a burst oflight, on a vista which lost itself in heaven. 

His vision of nature was modified; the surroundings were transformed;the fog of sadness which visited them vanished; the sudden clearness ofhis soul was repeated in its surroundings. 

He had the sensation of expansion, the almost childlike joy of a sickman who takes his first outing, of the convalescent, who having longcrawled in a chamber, sets foot without; all grew young again. Thesealleys, this wood, through which he had wandered so much, which he beganto know in all their windings, and in every corner, began to appear tohim in a new aspect. A restrained joy, a repressed gladness emanatedfrom this site, which appeared to him, instead of extending as formerly, to draw near and gather round the crucifix, to turn, as it were, withattention towards the liquid cross. 

The trees rustled trembling, in a whisper of prayers, inclining towardsthe Christ, who no longer twisted His painful arms in the mirror of thepool, but He constrained these waters, and displayed them before Him, blessing them. 

They were themselves different; the dark fluid was covered with monasticvisions, in white robes, which the reflections of clouds left there inpassing, and the swan scattered them, in a splash of sunlight, making ashe swam great oily circles round him. 

One might have said that these waves were gilt by the oil of thecatechumens, and the sacred Chrism, which the Church exorcises on theSaturday of Holy Week, and above them heaven half-opened its tabernacleof clouds, out of which came a clear sun like a monstrance of moltengold in a Blessed Sacrament of flames. 

It was a Benediction of nature, a genuflection of trees and flowers, singing in the wind, incensing with their perfume the sacred Bread whichshone on high, in the flaming custody of the planet. 

Durtal looked on in transport. He desired to cry aloud his enthusiasmand his Faith to the landscape; he felt a joy in living. The horror ofexistence counted for nothing when there were such moments, as noearthly happiness can give. God alone had the power of thus filling asoul, of making it overflow, and rush in floods of joy; and He alonecould also fill the basin of sorrows, as no event in this world coulddo. Durtal had just tried it; his spiritual sufferings and joys attainedunder the divine imprint an acuteness, which people most humanly happyor unhappy cannot even suspect. 

This idea brought him back to the terrible distresses of the eveningbefore. He endeavoured to sum up what he had been able to observe ofhimself in this Trappist monastery. 

First, the clear distinction between body and soul; then the action ofthe demon, insinuating and obstinate, almost visible, while the heavenlyaction remained, on the contrary, dull and veiled, appeared only atcertain moments, and seemed at others to vanish for ever. 

And all this, when felt and understood, had an appearance simple initself, but scarcely explaining itself. The body appearing to throwitself forward to the rescue of the soul, and no doubt borrowing from itits will, to help it when it fainted, was unintelligible. How a bodycould itself react obscurely, and yet show, all at once, so strong adecision that it pressed its companion into a vice, and prevented itsflight--

"It is as mysterious as the rest, " thought Durtal, and as in a dream hecontinued, "The secret action of Jesus in His Sacrament is not less strange. If Imay judge by what has happened to me; a first communion exasperates theaction of the devil, while a second represses it. 

"Ah, and how I put myself in line with all my calculations! In takingshelter here I thought myself pretty sure of my soul, and that my bodywould trouble me; whereas just the contrary has been the case. 

"My stomach has grown vigorous and shown itself fit to support an effortof which I should never have thought it capable, and my soul has beenbelow everything, vacillating and dry, so fragile, so feeble!

"But we will let all that alone. "

He walked about, lifted from earth by a confused joy. He grew vaporizedin a sort of intoxication, in a vague etherization, in which arose, without his even thinking of formulating words, acts of thanksgiving; itwas an effort of thanks of his soul, of his body, of his whole being, tothat God whom he felt living in him, and diffused in that kneelinglandscape which also seemed to expand in mute hymns of gratitude. 

The hour which struck by the clock in the portico reminded him it wasbreakfast time. He went to the guest-house, cut himself a slice of breadand butter with some cheese, drank half a glass of wine, and was aboutto go out again when he reflected that the horary of the offices waschanged. 

"They must be different from those of the week, " he thought; and he wentup into his cell to consult his placards. 

He found only one, that of the rule of the monks themselves, whichcontained the regulations for the Sunday practices for the cloister; andhe read:

EXERCISES OF THE COMMUNITY FOR ALL ORDINARY SUNDAYS. 

 MORNING. 

 1. Rise. Little Office. Prayer till 1. 30. 2. Grand Canonical Office chanted. 5. 30. Prime, Morning Mass, 6 o'clock. 6. 45. Chapter Instructions. Great Silence. 9. 15. Asperges, Tierce, Procession. 10. High Mass. 11. 10. Sext and special examination. 11. 30. Angelus, Dinner. 12. 15. Siesta, Great Silence. 

 EVENING. 

 2. End of Repose. None. 4. Vespers and Benediction. 5. 45. Quarter of an hour for Prayer. 6. Supper. 7. Reading before Compline. 7. 15. Compline. 7. 30. Salve, Angelus. 7. 45. Examination of conscience and Retreat. 8. Bed time, Great Silence. 

 Note. --After the Cross of September, no siesta. None is at 2 o'clock; Vespers at 3; Supper at 5; Compline at 6, and bed time at 7. 

Durtal copied this rule for his use on a scrap of paper. "In fact, " hesaid to himself, "I have to be in chapel at 9. 15 for Asperges, High Massand the Office of Sext, afterwards at 2 for None, then at 4 for Vespersand Benediction, and lastly at 7. 30 for Compline. 

"Here is a day which will be occupied, without counting that I got up athalf-past two this morning, " he concluded; and when he reached thechapel, about nine o'clock, he found the greater part of the laybrothers on their knees, the others saying their rosary; and when theclock struck all returned to their place. 

Assisted by two fathers in cowls, the prior, vested in a white alb, entered, and while the antiphon "Asperges me, Domine, hyssopo, etmundabor" was sung, all the monks in succession defiled before FatherMaximin, standing on the steps, turning his back to the altar; and hesprinkled them with holy water, while they regained their stalls, eachmaking the sign of the cross. 

Then the prior descended from the altar, and came to the entrance to thevestibule, where he dispersed the water crosswise, traced by thesprinkler over the oblate, and over Durtal. 

At last he vested, and went to celebrate the sacrifice. 

Then Durtal was able to think over his Sundays at the Benedictine nuns. 

The "Kyrie Eleison" was the same but slower and more sonorous, moregrave on the prolonged termination of the last word; at Paris the voicesof the nuns drew it out and put a gloss on it at the same time, turnedinto satin its final sound, rendered it less dull, less spaced, lessample. The "Gloria in Excelsis" differed; that of La Trappe was moreprimitive, more mounting, more sombre, interesting by its verybarbarism, but less touching, for in its forms of adoration, in the"Adoramus te, " for example, the "te" did not detach itself, did not droplike a tear of amorous essence, like an avowal retained by humility onthe tip of the lips; but it was when the Credo arose, that Durtal coulduplift himself at ease. 

He had never yet heard it so authoritative, and so imposing; itadvanced, chanted in unison, developing its slow procession of dogmas, in sounds well furnished and rigid, of a violet almost obscure, a redalmost black, growing lighter towards the end, till it expired in a longand plaintive Amen. 

In following the Cistercian office Durtal could recognize the morsels ofplain chant still preserved in parish masses. All the part of the Canon, the "Sursum Corda, " the "Vere Dignum, " the Antiphons, the "Pater, "remained intact. Only the "Sanctus" and the "Agnus Dei" were changed. 

Massive, built up, as it were, in the Roman style, they drapedthemselves in the colour, glowing and dull, which clothes, in fact, theoffices of La Trappe. 

"Well, " said the oblate, when, after the ceremony, they sat at the tableof the refectory; "well, what do you think of our High Mass?"

"It is superb, " answered Durtal. And he said dreamily, "Would that onecould have the whole complete! to bring here, instead of thisuninteresting chapel, the apse of St. Severin; hang on the walls thepictures of Fra Angelico, Memling, Grünewald, Gerard David, Roger vanden Weyden, Bouts; add to these, admirable sculptures such as those ofthe great door of Chartres, altar screens of sculptured wood, such asthose of the Cathedral of Amiens, what a dream!"

"Yet, " he went on after a silence, "this dream has been a reality, it isevident. This ideal church existed for ages, everywhere in the MiddleAges! The chant, the goldsmith's work, the panels, the sculptures, thetissues were all attractive; the liturgies possessed, to give themvalue, fabulous caskets, but all that is far off. "

"But you certainly cannot say, " replied M. Bruno, with a smile, "thatthe church ornaments are ugly here!"

"No; they are exquisite. First, the chasubles have not the shapes of aminer's apron, and they do not hoist themselves up on the shoulders ofthe priest, that excrescence, that puffing like the ear of a littledonkey lying back, which the vestment makers use at Paris. 

"Nor is it any more that cross in stripe or woven, filling all thestuff, falling like a sack-coat over the back of the celebrant; theTrappist chasubles have kept the old form, as the old image makers andthe old painters preserved them in their religious scenes; and thatcross with four leaves, like those which the Gothic style chiselled onthe walls of its churches, is related to the very expanded lotus aflower so full-blown that its falling petals droop. "

"Without counting, " pursued Durtal, "that the stuff which seems cut in asort of flannel or thick soft felt must have been plunged in threefolddyes, for it takes a depth, and a magnificent clearness of tone. Thereligious trimming-makers could trim these watered and plain silks withsilver and gold, yet never attain to give a colour at once so vehementand so familiar to the eye as that crimson with sulphur-yellow flowers, which Father Maximin wore the other day. "

"Yes, and the mourning chasuble with its lobed crosses, and its discreetwhite fullings, in which the Father abbot vested himself, the day onwhich he communicated us, is not it also a caress for the eyes?"

Durtal sighed: "Ah! if the statues in the chapel showed a like taste!"

"By the way, " said the oblate, "come and salute that Notre Dame del'Atre, of which I have spoken to you, found among the remains of theold cloister. "

They rose from table, passed along a corridor, and struck into a lateralgallery, at the end of which they stopped before a statue of life size, in stone. 

It was heavy and massive, representing in a robe of long folds, apeasant woman, crowned, and round-cheeked, holding on her arm a childwho blessed a ball. 

But in this portrait of a robust peasant woman, sprung from Burgundy orFlanders, there was a candour, a goodness almost tumultuous, whichsprang from her smiling face, her innocent eyes, her good and largelips, indulgent, ready for all forgiveness. 

She was a rustic Virgin made for the humble lay brothers; she was not agreat lady who could hold them at a distance, but she was indeed thenursing mother of their souls, their true mother. "How was it they hadnot understood her here? how instead of presiding in the chapel, did shegrow chill at the end of a corridor?" cried Durtal. 

The oblate turned the conversation--"I warn you, " he said, "thatBenediction will not take place after Vespers as your placard indicates, but directly after Compline; this latter office will therefore beadvanced a quarter of an hour at least. "

And the oblate went up to his cell, while Durtal went towards the largepond. There he lay down on a bed of dry reed, looking at the water whichbroke in wavelets at his feet. The coming and going of these limitedwaters, folding back on themselves, yet never overpassing the basin theyhad hollowed for themselves, led him on into long reveries. 

He said to himself that a river was the most exact symbol of the activelife; one follows it from its source through all its courses across theterritories it fertilizes; it has fulfilled its assigned task before itdies, immersing itself in the gaping sepulchre of the seas; but thepond, that tamed water, imprisoned in a hedge of reeds which it hasitself caused to grow in fertilizing the soil of its bank, hasconcentrated itself, lived on itself, not seemed to achieve any knownwork, save to keep silence and reflect on the infinite of heaven. 

"Still water troubles me, " continued Durtal. "It seems to me that unableto extend itself, it grows deeper, and that while running waters borrowonly the shadows of things they reflect, it swallows them without givingthem back. Most certainly in this pond is a continued and profoundabsorption of forgotten clouds, of lost trees, even of sensations seizedon the faces of monks who hung over it. This water is full, and notempty, like those which are distracted in wandering about the countryand in bathing the towns. It is a contemplative water, in perfect accordwith the recollected life of the cloisters. 

"The fact is, " he concluded, "that a river would have here no meaning;it would only be passing, would remain indifferent and in a hurry, wouldbe in all cases unfit to pacify the soul which the monastic water of theponds appeases. Ah! in founding Notre Dame de l'Atre, Saint Bernard knewhow to fit the Cistercian rule and the site. 

"But we must leave these fancies, " he said, rising; and, rememberingthat it was Sunday, he transferred himself to Paris, and revisited inthought his halts on this day in the churches. 

In the morning St. Severin enchanted him, but he ought not to thrusthimself into that sanctuary for the other Offices. Vespers there werebotched and mean; and if it were a feast day the organ master showedhimself possessed by the love of ignoble music. 

Occasionally Durtal had taken refuge at St. Gervais, where at least theyplayed at certain times motets of the old masters; but that church was, as well as St. Eustache, a paying concert, where Faith had nothing todo. No recollection was possible in the midst of ladies who faintedbehind, their faces in their hands, and grew agitated in creakingchairs. These were frivolous assemblies for pious music, a compromisebetween the theatre and God. 

St. Sulpice was better, where at least the public was silent. There, moreover, Vespers were celebrated with more solemnity and less haste. 

In general the seminary reinforced the choir, and rendered by thisimposing choir they rolled on majestically sustained by the grand organ. 

Chanted, only in half, and not in unison, reduced to a state ofcouplets, given, some by a baritone, others by the choir, they weretwisted and frizzled by a curling iron, but as they were not lessadulterated at the other churches, there was every advantage inlistening to them at St. Sulpice, whose powerful choir, very well led, had not, as for example at Notre Dame, those dusty voices which break atthe least whisper. 

This only became really odious when, with a formidable explosion, thefirst strophe of the Magnificat struck the arches. 

The organ then swallowed up one stanza out of two, and under theseditious pretext that the length of the Office of incensing was toolong to be filled up entirely by singing, M. Widor, seated at his desk, rolled forth stale fragments of music splashed about above, imitatingthe human voice and the flute, the bagpipe and the bassoon, or indeed, tired of affectations, he blew furiously on the keys, ending byimitating the roll of locomotives over iron bridges, letting all thestops go. 

And the choirmaster, not wishing to show himself inferior to theorganist in his instinctive hatred of plain chant, was delighted, whenthe Benediction began, to put aside Gregorian melodies and make hischoristers gurgle rigadoons. 

It was no longer a sanctuary, but a howling place. The "Ave Maria, " the"Ave Verum, " all the mystical indecencies of the late Gounod, therhapsodies of old Thomas, the capers of indigent musicasters, defiled ina chain wound by choir leaders from Lamoureux, chanted unfortunately bychildren, the chastity of whose voices no one feared to pollute in thesemiddle-class passages of music, these by-ways of art. 

"Ah, " thought Durtal, "if only this choirmaster, who is evidently anexcellent musician; for indeed, when he must, he knows how to getexecuted better than anywhere else in Paris, the 'De Profundis' withorgan accompaniment, and the 'Dies Irĉ'; if only this man would as atSt. Gervais give us some Palestrina and Vittoria, some Aichinger andAllegri, some Orlando Lasso and De Près; but no, he must detest thesemasters also, consider them as archaic rubbish, good to send into thedust-heaps. "

And Durtal continued, "What we hear now at Paris, in the churches, is wholly incredible! Underpretence of managing an income for the singers, they suppress half thestanzas of canticles and hymns, and substitute, to vary the pleasure, the tiresome divagations of an organ. 

"There they howl the 'Tantum Ergo' to the Austrian National air; or whatis still worse, muffle it up with operatic choruses, or refrains fromcanteens. The very text is divided into couplets which are ornamentedlike a drinking song with a little burthen. 

"The other Church sequences are treated in the same manner. 

"And yet the Papacy has formally forbidden, in many bulls, that thesanctuary should be soiled by those liberties. To cite one only, JohnXXII. , in his Extravagant 'Doctor Sanctorum, ' expressly forbade profanevoices and music in churches. He prohibited choirs at the same time tochange plain chant into fiorituri. The decrees of the Council of Trentare not less clear from this point of view, and more recently still aregulation of the Sacred Congregation of Rites has intervened toproscribe musical rioting in holy places. 

"Then what are the parish-priests doing who, in fact, have musicalpolice charge in their churches? Nothing, they laugh at it. 

"Nor is this a mere phrase, but with those priests who, hoping forreceipts, permit on fête days the shameless voices of actresses to dancegambols to the heavy sounds of the organ, the poor Church has become farfrom clean. 

"At St. Sulpice, " Durtal went on, "the priest tolerates the villainy ofjolly songs which are served up to him; but at least he does not, likethe one at St. Severin, allow strolling women players to lighten up theOffice by the shouts of such voices as remain to them. Nor has heaccepted the solo on the English horn which I heard at St. Thomas oneevening during the Perpetual Adoration. In short, if the grandBenedictions at St. Sulpice are a shame, the Complines remain in spiteof their theatrical attitude really charming. "

And Durtal thought of those Complines of which the paternity is oftenattributed to Saint Benedict; they were in fact the integral prayer ofthe evenings, the preventive adjuration, the safeguard against theattempts of the Demon, they were in some measure the advanced sentinelsof the out-posts placed round the soul to protect it during the night. 

And the regulation of this entrenched camp of prayer was perfect. Afterthe benediction the best trained voice, the most threadlike of thechoir, the voice of the smallest of the children, sang forth the shortlesson taken from the first Epistle of Saint Peter, warning the faithfulthat they must be sober and watch, not allow themselves to be surprisedunexpectedly. A priest then recited the usual evening prayers; the choirorgan gave the intonation, and the psalms fell, chanted one by one, thetwilight psalms, in which before the approaches of night peopled withgoblins, and furrowed by ghosts, man calls God to aid, and prays Him toguard his sleep from the violence of the ways of hell, the rape of thelamias that pass. 

And the hymn of Saint Ambrose, the "Te lucis ante terminum, " made stillmore precise the scattered meaning of these psalms, gathering it up inits short stanzas. Unfortunately, the most important, that whichforesees and declares the luxurious dangers of darkness, was swallowedup by the full organ. This hymn was not rendered in plain chant at St. Sulpice as at La Trappe, but was sung to a pompous and elaborate air, anair full of glory, with a certain proud attractiveness, originating nodoubt in the eighteenth century. 

Then there was a pause--and man, feeling himself more sheltered, behinda rampart of prayers, recollected himself, more assured, and borrowedinnocent voices to address new supplications to God. After the chapterread by the officiant, the children of the choir chanted the shortresponse "In manus tuus Domine, commendo spiritum meum, " which rolledout, dividing in two parts, then doubled itself, and resolved at thelast its two separate portions by a verse, and part of an antiphon. 

And after that prayer there was still the canticle of Simeon, who, assoon as he had seen the Messiah, desired to die. This "Nunc dimittis, "which the Church has incorporated in Compline to stimulate us ateventide to self-examination--for none can tell whether he shall wake onthe morrow--was raised by the whole choir, which alternated with theresponses of the organ. 

In fact, to end this Office of a besieged town, to take its lastdispositions and try to repose in shelter from a violent attack, theChurch built up again a few prayers, and placed her parishes under thetutelage of the Virgin, to whom it chanted one of the four antiphonswhich follow, according to the Proper. 

"At La Trappe Compline was evidently less solemn, less interesting thanat St. Sulpice, " concluded Durtal, "for the monastic breviary is, for awonder, less complete for that Office than the Roman breviary. As forSunday Vespers, I am curious to hear them. "

And he heard them; but they hardly differed from the Vespers adopted bythe Benedictine nuns of the Rue Monsieur; they were more massive, moregrave, more Roman, if it may be said, for necessarily the voice of womendrew them out into sharp points, made them like acute arches, as itwere, in Gothic style, but the Gregorian tunes were the same. 

On the other hand they resembled in nothing those at St. Sulpice, wherethe modern sauces spoilt the very essences of the plain chants. Only theMagnificat of La Trappe, abrupt, and with dry tone, was not so good asthe majestic, the admirable Royal Magnificat chanted at Paris. 

"These monks are astonishing with their superb voices, " said Durtal tohimself, and he smiled as they finished the antiphon of Our Lady, for heremembered that in the primitive Church the chanter was called "Fabariuscantor, " "eater of beans, " because he was obliged to eat that vegetableto strengthen his voice. Now, at La Trappe, dishes of beans were common;perhaps that was the secret of the ever young monastic voices. 

He thought over the liturgy and plain chant while smoking cigarettes, inthe walks, after Vespers. 

He brought to mind the symbolism of those canonical hours which recalledevery day to the Christian the shortness of life in summing up for himits image from infancy to death. 

Recited soon after dawn, Prime was the figure of childhood; Tierce ofyouth; Sext the full vigour of age; None the approaches of old age, while Vespers were an allegory of decrepitude. They belonged, moreover, to the Nocturns, and were sung about six o'clock in the evening, at thathour when, at the time of the Equinoxes, the sun sets in the red cinderof the clouds. As for Compline, it resounds when night, the symbol ofdeath, has come. 

This canonical Office was a marvellous rosary of psalms; every bead ofeach of these hours bore reference to the different phases of humanexistence, followed, little by little, the periods of the day, thedecline of destiny, to end in the most perfect of offices, in Compline, that provisional absolution of a death, itself represented by sleep. 

And if, from these texts so wisely selected, these Sequences so solemnlysealed, Durtal passed to the sacerdotal robe of their sounds, to thoseneumatic chants, that divine psalmody all uniform, all simple, which isplain chant, he had to admit, that except in Benedictine cloisters, anorgan accompaniment was everywhere added, that plain chant had been putforcibly in modern tonality, and it disappeared under vegetations whichstifled it, became everywhere discoloured, amorphous andincomprehensible. 

One only of its executioners, Niedermayer, showed himself at leastpitiful. He tried a system more ingenious and more honest. He reversedthe terms of torture. Instead of wishing to make plain chant supple andto thrust it into the mould of modern harmony, he constrained thatharmony to bend itself to the austere tonality of plain chant. He thuspreserved its character, but how far more natural would it have been toleave it solitary and not obliged it to tow an useless companion andawkward following?

Here at least at La Trappe it lived and spread in all security, withouttreason on the part of the monks. There was always sameness of sound, itwas always chanted without accompaniment in unison. 

He was able to satisfy himself about this truth once more after supper, that evening, when at the end of Compline the father sacristan lightedall the candles on the altar. 

At that moment, in the silence of the Trappists on their knees, theirhead in their hands, or their cheek resting on the sleeve of their greatcowl, three lay brothers entered, two carrying torches, and anotherpreceding them with a censer, and behind them a few paces, came theprior with his hands joined. 

Durtal looked at the changed costume of the three brothers. They had nolonger their robes of serge, made of bits and scraps, stained mudcolour, but robes of violet-brown, like plums on which was spread thewhite twilling of a new surplice. 

While Father Maximin, vested in a copy of milky white, woven with across in orange yellow, placed the Host in the monstrance, the thuriferput down the censer, on the coals of which melted tears of real incense. Contrary to what takes place in Paris, where the censer, swung beforethe altar, sounds against its chains, and is like the clear tinkling ofa horse which, as he lifts his head, shakes his curb and bit, the censerat La Trappe remained immovable before the altar, and smoked by itselfbehind the officiants. 

And everyone chanted the imploring and melancholy antiphon "ParceDomine, " then the "Tantum Ergo, " that magnificent song, which could bealmost acted, so clear in their changes are the sentiments which succeedeach other in their rhymed sequence. 

In the first stanza it seems indeed to shake the head gently, to putforward the chin, so to speak, so as to affirm the insufficiency of thesenses to explain the dogma of the real presence, the finished avatar ofthe Bread. It is then admiring and reflective; then that melody soattentive, so respectful, does not wait to affirm the weakness of thereason, and the power of faith, but in the second stanza it goesforward, adores the glory of the three Persons, exults with joy, onlyrecovers itself at the end, where the music adds a new sense to the textof Saint Thomas, in avowing in a long and mournful Amen the unworthinessof those present to receive the Benediction of the Flesh placed uponthat cross which the monstrance is about to trace in the air. 

And slowly, while unrolling its coil of smoke, the censer spread, as itwere, a blue gauze before the altar, while the Blessed Sacrament waslifted like a golden moon, amid the stars of the tapers, sparkling inthe growing darkness of that fog, the bells of the abbey sounded withmusical and sweet strokes. And all the monks bowed low with their eyesclosed, then recovered themselves and entoned the "Laudate" to the oldmelody which is also sung at Notre Dame des Victoires at the Benedictionin the evening. 

Then one by one, having genuflected before the altar, they went out, while Durtal and the oblate returned to the guest-house, where FatherEtienne was waiting for them. 

He said to Durtal: "I would not go to bed without knowing how you haveborne the day;" and as Durtal thanked him, assuring him that this Sundayhad been very peaceful, Father Etienne smiled and revealed in a word, that under their reserved attitude all at La Trappe were more interestedin their guest than he had himself believed. 

"The reverend Father abbot and the Father prior will be glad when I givethem this answer, " said the monk, who wished Durtal good-night, pressinghis hand. 

CHAPTER VII. 

At seven o'clock, just as he was preparing to eat his bread, Durtalencountered Father Etienne. 

"Father, " he said, "to-morrow is Tuesday; the time of my retreat hasexpired, and I am going; how should I order a carriage for SaintLandry?"

The monk smiled. "When the postman brings the letters I can charge himwith the commission, but let us see; are you in a great hurry to leaveus?"

"No, but I would not trespass.... "

"Listen, since you are so well broken in to the life at La Trappe, stayhere two days more. The Father procurator must go to settle a dispute atSaint Landry. He will take you to the station in our carriage. So youwill avoid some expense, and the journey hence to the railroad will seemto you less long, since there will be two of you. "

Durtal accepted, and as it rained, he went up to his room. "It isstrange, " he said, as he sat down, "how impossible one finds it in acloister to read a book; one wants nothing, one thinks of God byHimself, and not by the volumes which speak about Him. "

Mechanically he had taken up from a heap of books one in octavo, whichhe had found on his table the day he took possession of his cell; itbore the title "Manresa, " or the "Spiritual Exercises" of Ignatius ofLoyola. 

He had already run through the work at Paris, and the pages which heturned over afresh did not change the harsh, almost hostile, opinionwhich he had retained of this book. 

The fact is that these exercises leave no initiative to the soul; theyconsider it as a soft paste good to run into a mould; they show it nohorizon, no sky. Instead of trying to stretch it, and make it greater, they make it smaller deliberately; they put it back into the cases oftheir wafer box, nourish it only on faded trifles, on dry nothings. 

This Japanese culture of deformed toes which remain dwarf; this Chinesedeformation of children planted in pots, horrified Durtal, who closedthe volume. 

He opened another, the "Introduction to the Devout Life, " by SaintFrancis de Sales. 

Certainly he found no need to read it again, in spite of itsaffectations, and its good nature, at first charming, but which ends bymaking you sick, by making the soul sticky with sweets with liqueurs inthem, and lollypops; in a word, that work so much praised by Catholicswas a julep scented with bergamot and ambergris. It was like a finehandkerchief shaken in a church in which a musty smell of incenseremained. 

But the man himself, the Bishop Saint Francis de Sales, was suggestive;with his name was called up the whole mystical history of theseventeenth century. 

And Durtal recalled the memories he had kept of the religious life ofthat time. There were then in the Church two currents:

That of the high Mysticism, as it was called, originating from SaintTeresa and Saint John of the Cross; and this current was concentrated onMarie Guyon. 

And another that of so-called temperate Mysticism, of which the adeptswere Saint Francis de Sales and his friend the celebrated Baroness deChantal. 

It was naturally this second current which triumphed. Jesus, puttingHimself within the reach of drawing-rooms, descending to the level ofwomen of the world, a moderate and proper Jesus, only dealing with thesoul of His creature just enough to give it one attraction the more, this elegant Jesus became all the fashion; but Madame Guyon, whosesource was above all Saint Teresa, who taught the mystical theory oflove, and familiar intercourse with heaven, raised the opposition of thewhole clergy who abominated Mysticism without understanding it; sheexasperated the terrible Bossuet, who accused her of the fashionableheresy, Molinism and Quietism. She refuted, unhappy as she was, thistrouble without much difficulty, but he persecuted her for it none theless; he was furious against her, and had her imprisoned at Vincennes;revealed himself obstinate, surly, and atrocious. 

Fenelon, who tried to conciliate these two tendencies in preparing asmall Mysticism neither too hot nor too cold, a little less lukewarmthan that of Saint Francis de Sales, and above all things much lessardent than that of Saint Teresa, ended in his turn by displeasing thecormorant of Meaux, and though he abandoned and denied Madame de Guyon, whose friend he had been for long years, he was persecuted and trackeddown by Bossuet, condemned at Rome, and sent in exile to Cambrai. 

And here Durtal could not but smile, for he remembered the desolatecomplaints of his partisans weeping for this disgrace, representing thusas a martyr this archbishop whose punishment consisted in quitting hispost as courtier at Versailles to go at last and administer his diocese, in which he appeared till then to have never resided. 

This mitred Job, who remained in his misfortune Archbishop and Duke ofCambrai, Prince of the Holy Roman Empire, and rich, so unhappy becausehe was obliged to visit his flock, well shows the state of theepiscopate under the redundant reign of the great king. It was apriesthood of financiers and valets. 

Only there was at any rate a certain attraction, there was talent inevery case; while now bishops are not for the most part less intriguingnor less servile, but they have no longer either talent or manners. Caught in part, in the fishpond of bad priests, they show themselvesready for everything, and turn out to be souls of old usurers, lowjobbers, beggars, when you press them. 

"It is sad to say it, but so it is, " concluded Durtal. "As for MadameGuyon, " he went on, "she was neither an original writer nor a saint; shewas only an unwelcome substitute for the true mystics; she was presumingand certainly lacked that humility which magnified Saint Teresa andSaint Clare; but after all she burst into a flame, she was overcome byJesus; above all, she was not a pious courtier, a bigot softened by acourt like the Maintenon. 

"After all, what a time for religion it was? All its saints havesomething formal and restricted, wordy and cold, which turns me awayfrom them. Saint Francis de Sales, Saint Vincent de Paul, Saint Chantal... No, I prefer Saint Francis of Assisi, Saint Bernard, Saint Angela... The Mysticism of the seventeenth century is all the fashion with itsemphatic and mean churches, its pompous and icy painting, its solemnpoetry, its gloomy prose. 

"But look, " he said, "my cell is still neither swept nor set in order, and I am afraid that in lingering here I may give some trouble to FatherEtienne. It rains, however, too hard to allow of my walking in the wood;the simplest thing is to go and read the Little Office of Our Lady inthe chapel. "

He went down there; it was at this hour almost empty; the monks were atwork in the fields or in the factory; two fathers only, on their kneesbefore the altar of Our Lady, were praying so absorbedly that they didnot even hear the opening of the door. 

And Durtal, who had placed himself near them opposite the porch whichgave upon the high altar, saw them reflected in the sheet of glass, placed before the shrine of the Blessed Guerric. This sheet had indeedthe effect of a mirror, and the white fathers were in the depths of it, lived in prayers under the table, in the very heart of the altar. 

And he also appeared there in a corner, reflected, at the back of theshrine, near the sacred remains of the monk. 

At one moment he lifted his head, and saw that the round window in theapse, behind the altar, reproduced on its glass ornamented with grey andblue, the marks engraved on the reverse of the medal of Saint Benedict, the first letters of its imperative formulas, the initials of itsdistiches. 

It might have been called an immense clear medal, sifting a pale light, straining it through prayers, not allowing them to penetrate to thealtar till sanctified and blessed by the Patriarch. 

And while he was dreaming, the clock struck; the two Trappists regainedtheir stalls, while the others entered. 

Waiting thus in the chapel, the hour of Sext had struck. The abbotadvanced. Durtal saw him again for the first time since theirconversation; he seemed less ill, less pale; he marched majestically inhis great white cowl, at the hood of which hung a violet acorn, and thefathers bowed, kissing their sleeve before him; he reached his place, which was designated by a wooden cross standing before a stall, and allenfolded themselves with a great sign of the cross, bowed to the altar, and the feeble imploring voice of the old Trappist rose: "Deus inadjutorium meum intende. "

And the Office continued, in the monotonous and charming pitch of thedoxology, interrupted by profound reverences, large movements of the armlifting the sleeve of the cowl as it fell to the ground, to allow thehand freedom to turn the pages. 

When Sext was over Durtal went to rejoin the oblate. 

They found on the table of the refectory a little omelette, leeks cookedin a sauce of flour and oil, haricots and cheese. 

"It is astonishing, " said Durtal, "how in regard to mystics, the worlderrs on preconceived ideas, on the old string. Phrenologists declarethat mystics have pointed skulls; now here that their form is morevisible than elsewhere, because they are all hairless and shaven, thereare no more heads like eggs than anywhere else. I looked this morning atthe shape of their heads, no two are alike. Some are oval and depressed, others like a pear and straight, some have lumps on them, and some havenone; and it is just the same with faces; when they are not transfiguredby prayer they are ordinary. If they did not wear the habit of theirorder, no one could recognize in these Trappists predestined beingsliving out of modern society, in the full Middle Ages, in absolutedependence on a God. If they have souls which are not like those ofother people, they have, after all, faces and bodies like those of thefirst comer. "

"All is within, " said the oblate. "Why should elect souls be enclosed infleshly prisons different to others?"

This conversation, which continued on different points of Trappist life, ended by turning on death in a monastery, and M. Bruno revealed somedetails. 

"When death is near, " he said, "the Father abbot traces on the ground across in blessed ashes covered with straw, and the dying man is placedon it wrapped in serge cloth. 

"The brothers recite near him the prayers of the dying, and at themoment of his death the response 'Subvenite Sancti Dei' is chanted inchoir. The Father abbot incenses the body, which is washed while themonks sing the Office of the Dead in another room. 

"Then his regular habit is put on the dead monk, and he is borne inprocession to the church, where he lies on a stretcher with his faceuncovered, until the hour destined for the funeral. 

"Then on the way to the cemetery the community intones no longer thechant of the dead, the psalms of grief, and the sequences of regret, butrather 'In exitu Israel de Ĉgypto, ' which is the psalm of deliverance, the free song of joy. 

"And the Trappist is buried without a coffin, in his robe of stuff, hishead covered with his hood. 

"Lastly, during thirty days, his place remains empty in the refectory, his portion is served as usual, but the brother porter distributes it tothe poor. 

"Ah! the happiness to die thus, " said the oblate, as he ended, "for ifone dies after having honestly fulfilled one's task in the order, one isassured of eternal happiness, according to the promises made by our Lordto Saint Benedict and to Saint Bernard!"

"The rain is over, " said Durtal; "I should like to visit to-day thatlittle chapel at the end of the park of which you spoke to me the otherday. Which is the shortest way to reach it?"

M. Bruno told him the way, and Durtal went off, rolling a cigarette, togain the great pond, thence he struck a path to the left and mounted alane of trees. 

He slipped on the wet ground, and got on with difficulty. At last, however, he gained a clump of chestnuts, which he skirted. Behind theserose a dwarf tower topped by a very small dome, pierced by a door. Tothe left and right of this door, on sockets where ornaments of theRomanesque epoch still were seen under the velvety crust of moss, twostone angels were still standing. 

They belonged, evidently, to the Burgundian school, with their big roundheads, their hair puffed and divided into waves, their fat faces withturned-up noses, their solid draperies with hard folds. They also camefrom the ruins of the old cloister, but the interior of the chapel wasunfortunately thoroughly modern; it was so small that the feet of himwho knelt at the altar almost touched the wall at the entrance. 

In a niche veiled by white gauze a Virgin smiled with extended hands. She had blue plaster eyes and apple-shaped cheeks. She was wearisome inher insignificance, but her sanctuary retained the warmth of placesalways shut up. The walls, hung with red calico, were dusted, the floorwas swept, and the holy water basins full; superb tea roses flourishedin pots between the candelabra. Durtal then understood why he had sooften seen M. Bruno walking in this direction with flowers in his hand;he was going to pray in this place, which he loved no doubt because itwas isolated in the profound solitude of this Trappist monastery. 

"Excellent man!" cried Durtal, thinking over the affectionate services, the fraternal care the oblate had had for him; and he added, "He is ahappy man too, for he is self-contained, and lives so placidly here. 

"And, indeed, " he went on, "where is the good of striving, if notagainst oneself? to agitate oneself for money, for glory, to conductoneself so as to keep others down, and gain adulation from them, howvain a task!

"Only the Church, in decking the temporary altars of the liturgicalyear, in forcing the seasons to follow step by step the life of Christ, has known how to trace for us a plan of necessary occupations, of usefulends. She has given us the means of walking always side by side withJesus, to live day by day with the Gospels; for Christians she has madetime the messenger of sorrows and the herald of joys; she has entrustedto the year the part of servant of the New Testament, the zealousemissary of worship. "

And Durtal reflected on the cycle of the liturgy which begins on thefirst day of the religious year, with Advent, then turns with aninsensible movement on itself till it returns again to itsstarting-point, to the time when the Church prepares by penitence andprayer to celebrate Christmas. 

And turning over his prayer-book, seeing the extraordinary circle ofoffices, he thought of that prodigious jewel, that crown of KingRecceswinthe preserved in the Museum of Cluny. 

The liturgical year was, like it, studded with crystals and jewels byits admirable canticles and its fervent hymns set in the very gold ofBenedictions and Vespers. 

It seemed that the Church had substituted for that crown of thorns withwhich the Jews had surrounded the temples of the Saviour, the trulyroyal crown of the Proper of the Seasons, the only one which waschiselled in a metal precious enough, with art pure enough to dare toplace itself on the brow of a God. 

And the grand Lapidary had begun his work by incrusting, in this diademof offices, the hymn of Saint Ambrose, and the invocation taken from theOld Testament, the "Rorate Coeli, " that melodious chant of expectationand regret, that obscure gem violet-coloured; the lustre declares itselfthen, when after each of its stanzas rises the solemn prayer of thepatriarchs, calling for the longed-for presence of Christ. 

And the four Sundays of Advent disappeared with the turned pages of theprayer-book; the night of the Nativity was come. After the "JesuRedemptor" of Vespers, the old Portuguese chant, the "Adeste Fideles, "arose at Benediction from every lip. It was a sequence of a trulycharming simplicity, an old carving wherein defiled the shepherds andthe kings to a popular air appropriate to great marches, apt to charm, to aid by the somewhat military rhythm of its steps, the long lines ofthe faithful quitting their cottages to go to the distant churches inthe towns. 

And imperceptibly, like the year in an invisible rotation, the circleturned, and stopped at the Feast of the Holy Innocents, where thereflourished out, like a flower from a slaughter-house, on a shoot culledfrom a soil irrigated by the blood of lambs, this sequence, red, andsmelling of roses, the "Salvate Flores Martyrum" of Prudentius; thecrown moved again, and the hymn of the Epiphany, the "Crudelis Herodes"of Sedudius, appeared in its turn. 

Now the Sundays grew heavy, the violet Sundays when the "Gloria inExcelsis" is no more heard, when the "Audi Benigne" of Saint Ambrose ischanted, and the "Miserere, " that cinder-coloured psalm, which isperhaps the most perfect masterpiece which the Church has ever drawnfrom her store-houses of plain chants. 

It was Lent, when the amethysts fade in the moist grey of onyxes, in theembrowned white of quartz, and the magnificent invocation, "AttendeDomine, " rose beneath the arches. Sprung like the "Rorate Coeli" fromthe sequences of the Old Testament, this humble and contrite chant, enumerating the deserved punishments of sins, became, if not moresorrowful, at all events more grave and more pressing when itconfirmed, when it resumed in the initial stanza of its burthen, theavowal of shame already confessed. 

And suddenly on this crown there burst out after the expiring fires ofLent, the flaming ruby of the Passion. On the upturned yellow of the skya red cross was raised, while majestic shouts and despairing criesproclaimed the blood-stained fruit of the tree; and the "Vexilla Regis"was again repeated the following Sunday at the Feast of Palms, whichjoined to that Sequence of Fortunatus the green hymn which itaccompanied with a silky noise of palms, the "Gloria laus et honor" ofTheodulph. 

Then the fires of precious stones grew grey and died. To the glowingcoals of gems succeeded the dead cinders of obsidians, black stonesscarcely swelling, without a gleam above the tarnished gold of theirmountings; one entered no Holy Week, everywhere the "Pange Lingua" andthe "Stabat Mater" wailed under the arches, and then came the "Tenebrĉ, "the lamentations, and the psalms, whose knell shook the flame of thebrown waxen tapers, and after each halt, at the end of each of thepsalms, one of the tapers expired, and its column of blue smokeevaporated still under the lighted circumference of the arches, whilethe choir recommenced the interrupted series of complaints. 

And the crown turned once more; the beads of this musical rosary stillran on, and all changed. Jesus had risen, and songs of joy issued fromthe organs. The "Victimĉ Paschali Laudes" exulted before the gospel ofthe masses, and at the Benediction the "O Filii et Filiĉ, " createdindeed to be intoned by the wild jubilations of crowds, ran and sportedin the joyous hurricane of the organs, which uprooted the pillars andunroofed the naves. 

And the feasts rung in with bells followed at longer intervals. AtAscension the heavy and clear crystals of Saint Ambrose filled withtheir luminous water the tiny basin of the catkins; the fire of rubiesand garnets lighted up again with the crimson hymn and scarlet sequenceof Pentecost the "Veni Creator" and "Veni Spiritus. " The Feast of theTrinity passed, signalized by the stanzas of Gregory the Great; and forthe Feast of the Blessed Sacrament, the liturgy could exhibit the mostmarvellous jewel case of its dower, the Office of Saint Thomas, the"Pange Lingua, " the "Adore Te, " the "Sacris Solemniis, " the "VerbumSupernum, " and above all the "Lauda Sion, " that pure masterpiece ofLatin poetry and scholasticism, that hymn so precise, so lucid in itsabstraction, so firm in its rhymed words, round which is rolled themelody perhaps the most enthusiastic, the most supple in plain chant. 

The circle displaced itself again, showing on its different faces thetwenty-three to twenty-eight Sundays which defile after Pentecost, thegreen weeks of the time of Pilgrimage, and stopped at the last feast, atthe Sunday after the Octave of All Saints, at the Dedication of Churcheswhich the "Coelestis Urbs" incensed, old stanzas of which the ruins werebadly consolidated by the architects of Urban VIII. , old jewels, onwhich the troubled water slept and was reanimated only in rare lights. 

The juncture of the religious crown, of the liturgical year, was thenmade at the masses, in which the gospel of the last Sunday afterPentecost, the Gospel according to Saint Matthew, repeats, as well asthe Gospel according to Saint Luke, recited on the first Sunday inAdvent, the terrible predictions of Christ on the desolation of thetime, on the end of the world. 

"This is not all, " Durtal continued, who was interested in this runthrough his prayer-book. "In this crown of the Proper of the Seasons areinserted, like smaller stones, the sequences of the Proper of Saintswhich fill the empty places, and finish the round of the circle. 

"First the pearls and gems of the Blessed Virgin, the limpid jewels, theblue sapphires and rose rubies of her antiphons; then the aquamarine, solucid and pure, of the 'Ave Maris Stella, ' the topaz, pale as tears, ofthe 'O Quot nudis Lacrymarum' on the Feast of the Seven Dolours, thehyacinth, colour of dried blood, of the 'Stabat;' then were told thefeasts of the Angels and the Saints, the hymns dedicated to the Apostlesand the Evangelists, to the Martyrs, whether solitary or in couples, both out of and during the Paschal season, to the Confessors, Pontiffs, and non-Pontiffs, to Virgins, to Holy Women, all Feasts differentiatedby special Sequences, by special Proses of which some are very simple, like those stanzas made in honour of the Nativity of Saint John theBaptist, by Paul the Deacon. 

"There still remains All Saints, with the 'Placare Christe, ' and thethree blows on the alarm bell, the knell in triplets of the 'Dies Irĉ, 'which resounds on the day set apart for the Commemoration of the Dead. 

"What an immense fund of poetry, what an incomparable estate of art theChurch possesses!" he cried, closing his book; and many memories rosefor him at this excursion into his prayer-book. 

On how many evenings had the sadness of life been dissipated inlistening to these proses chanted in the churches!

He thought over again of the suppliant voice of Advent, and recalled oneevening, when he had wandered under a fine rain along the quays. He hadbeen driven from home by ignoble visions, and at the same time had beenharassed by the increasing disgust of his vices. He had ended by beingbrought up against his will at St. Gervais. 

In the chapel of the Virgin, some poor women were prostrate. He hadknelt, tired and dazed, his soul so ill at ease, that he slumberedwithout power to wake himself. Some men and boys of the choir wereinstalled in the chapel, with two or three priests; they had lightedcandles, and the voice, light and sustained, of a child, had in the darkof the church chanted the long antiphons of the "Rorate. "

In the state of overwhelming sadness in which he was stagnant, Durtalfelt himself open and bleeding to the bottom of his soul; then a voiceolder and less trembling, which understood the words it said, narratedingenuously, almost without confusion, to the Just One, "Peccavimus etfacti sumus tanquam immundus nos. "

And Durtal took up these words, and spelt them over in terror, thinking, "Ah! yes, we have sinned and become like the leprous, O Lord!" And thechant continued, and in His turn, the Most High borrowed that sameinnocent organ of childhood, to declare to man His pity, and to confirmto him the pardon assured by the coming of the Son. 

And the evening had ended by the Benediction in plain chant, in themidst of the silence and prostration of unhappy women. 

Durtal remembered how he left the church refreshed, freed from hishauntings, and he had gone away in the drizzling rain, surprised thatthe way was so short, humming the "Rorate, " of which the air had takenpossession of him, ending by seeing in it the personal touch of a kindlyunknown. 

And there were other evenings ... The Octave of the Feast of All Soulsat St. Sulpice and at St. Thomas Aquinas, where, after the Vespers ofthe Dead, they brought out again the old Sequence which has disappearedfrom the Roman Breviary, the "Lanquentilus in Purgatorio. "

This church was the only one in Paris which had retained these pages ofthe Gallican hymnal, and had them sung by two basses without a choir;but these singers, so poor as a rule, no doubt were fond of this air, for if they did not sing it with art, at least they put a little soulinto its delivery. 

And this invocation to the Madonna, in which she was adjured to save thesouls in Purgatory, was as sorrowful as the souls themselves, and somelancholy, so languid, that the surroundings were forgotten, theugliness of that sanctuary of which the choir was a theatre scene, surrounded by closed dressing-rooms and garnished with lustres, onemight think oneself for a few moments far from Paris, far from thatpopulation of devout women and servant girls, which attend that place inthe evening. 

"Ah! the Church, " he said to himself, as he descended the path which ledto the great pond, "what a mother of art is she!" and suddenly the noiseof a body falling into the water interrupted his reflections. 

He looked behind the hedge of reeds and saw nothing but great circlesrunning on the water, and all at once in one of these rings a smalldog-like head appeared holding a fish in its mouth; the beast raiseditself a little out of the water, showed a thin body covered with fur, and gazed on Durtal quietly with its little black eyes. 

Then in a flash it passed the distance which separated it from the bank, and disappeared under the grasses. 

"It is the otter, " he said to himself, remembering the discussion attable between the stranger priest and the oblate. 

And he went to gain the other pond, when he encountered Father Etienne. 

He told him his adventure. 

"Impossible!" cried the monk, "no one has ever seen the otter; you musthave mistaken it for a water rat, or some other animal, for that beast, for which we have watched for years, is invisible. "

Durtal gave him a description of it. 

"It is certainly the otter, " admitted the guest-master, surprised. 

It was evident that this otter lived in the pond in a legendary state. In monotonous lives, in days like those in a cloister, it took theproportions of a fabulous subject, of an event whereof the mystery wouldoccupy intervals seized between prayers and offices. 

"We must point out to M. Bruno the exact spot where you remarked it, forhe will begin to hunt it again, " said Father Etienne after a silence. 

"But how can it trouble you in eating your fish, since you do not anglefor them?"

"I beg your pardon; we fish for them to send them to the Archbishop, "answered the monk, who went on: "Still, it is very strange that you sawthe beast!"

"When I leave this, " thought Durtal, "they will certainly speak of me asthe gentleman who saw the otter. "

While talking, they had arrived at the cross pond. 

"Look, " said the father, pointing out the swan, who rose in a fury, beathis wings, and hissed. 

"What is the matter with him?"

"The matter is that the white hue of my habit infuriates him. "

"Ah! and why?"

"I do not know; perhaps he wants to be the only one who is white here;he spares the lay brothers, while as for a father ... Wait, you willsee. "

And the guest-master walked quietly towards the swan. 

"Come, " he said to the angry creature, who splashed him with water; andhe held out his hand which the swan snapped. 

"See, " said the monk, showing the mark of a red pinch printed on theflesh. 

And he smiled, holding his hand, and quitted Durtal, who asked himselfwhether, in acting thus, the Trappist were not wishing to inflict onhimself some corporal punishment to atone for some distraction theevening before; some peccadillo. 

"That stroke of the beak must have pinched him horribly, for the tearscame into his eyes. How could he expose himself with joy to such abite?"

And he remembered that one day at the office of None, one of the youngmonks made a mistake in the tone of an antiphon; at the moment that theoffice ended, he knelt before the altar, then he lay his whole length onthe tiles on his face, his mouth pressed on the ground, till the strokeof the prior's bell gave him the order to get up. 

This was a voluntary punishment for a negligence committed, aforgetfulness. Who knows whether Father Etienne did not in his turnpunish himself for a thought he deemed to border on sin, in gettinghimself thus pinched?

He consulted the oblate on the point in the evening, but M. Brunocontented himself with a smile, without answering. 

And when Durtal spoke to him of his speedy departure for Paris, the oldman shook his head. 

"Considering, " he said, "the fear and the discomfort that Communioncaused you, you would act wisely if you approach the Holy Tableimmediately on your return. "

And seeing that Durtal did not reply, but hung his head, "Believe a man who has known these trials; if you do not force yourselfwhile you are still under the warm impression of La Trappe, you willfloat between desire and regret without advancing; you will be ingeniousin discovering excuses for not making your confession; you will try tothink it impossible to find in Paris an abbé who understands you. Nowallow me to assure you nothing is more false. If you desire an expertand easy confidant, go to the Jesuits; if you wish above all azealous-souled priest, go to St. Sulpice. 

"You will find there honest and intelligent ecclesiastics, excellenthearts. In Paris, where the clergy of the parishes are so mixed, theyare at the top of the basket of the priesthood, and, as may be imagined, they form a community, live in cells, do not dine out; and as theSulpician rule forbids them to aspire to honours, or places, they do notrun the chance of becoming bad priests by ambition. Do you know them?"

"No; but to resolve that question, which in fact constantly troubles me, I count on a priest whom I often see, on the very man who, in fact, sentme into this Trappist monastery. 

"And that, " he went on, "makes me remember, " and he rose to go toCompline, "that I have as yet forgotten to write to him. It is true thatnow it is too late, I should arrive at his house almost as soon as myletter. It is strange, but by force of walking in one's own, by force ofliving to oneself, the days run by, and there is no time to do anythinghere!"

CHAPTER VIII. 

He had hoped for his last day at La Trappe a morning of quiet, when hismind might lounge, a mixture of spiritual siesta and of working, charmedby a round of offices, and not at all that the idea persistent andobstinate that he must quit the monastery next day, would spoil all thepleasures he had promised himself. 

Now that he had no longer to cleanse himself, and pass under thewinnowing of confession, to present himself for the Communion in themorning, he remained irresolute, not knowing any longer how to occupyhis time, terrified by the recommencement of that life of the worldwhich would upset all the barriers of forgetfulness, and would get athim at once above all the broken defences of the cloister. 

Like a captured animal, he began to rub against the bars of his cage, made the tour of the enclosure, filling his sight with those placeswhere he had tasted hours so kindly and so cruel. 

He felt in himself a shaking of the ground, a disturbance of soul, anabsolute discouragement before the prospect of re-entering into hishabitual existence, of mixing himself anew with the coming and going ofmen, and he experienced at the same time a great fatigue of brain. 

He dragged himself along the walks in a state of complete discomfort, inone of those attacks of religious spleen which determine, while theylast during years, the "tĉdium vitĉ" of the cloisters. He had a horrorof any life but this, and the soul overwrought by prayers was failing ina body insufficiently rested and ill-nourished; it had no furtherdesire, asked only to be let alone, to sleep, to fall into one of thosestates of torpor in which everything becomes indifferent, in which oneends by losing consciousness gently, by being stifled withoutsuffering. 

He might well, to re-act on him as a consolation, promise himself toassist in Paris at the offices of the Benedictine nuns, that he wouldkeep himself on the outskirts of society, to himself; and he was at onceobliged to answer that these subterfuges are impossible, that the verymovement of the town is against all decoys, that isolation in a chamberis in no degree like the solitude of a cell, that masses celebrated in achapel open to the public cannot be likened to the private Offices ofthe Trappists. 

Then what is the good of trying to misunderstand? It is with the soul aswith the body, which is better on the sea shore, or in the mountains, than shut up in a town. There is a better spiritual air even at Paris, in certain religious quarters of the left bank, than in the districtssituated on the other bank, more lively in certain churches, more pure, for example, at Notre Dame des Victoires than in churches such as LaTrinité and the Madeleine. 

But the monastery was, as it were, the true shore and high plateau ofthe soul. There the atmosphere was balsamic, strength returned, lostappetite for God was there recovered, there was health succeedingweakness, a regimen, fortified and sustained, instead of languor and therestricted exercises of the towns. 

The conviction that no trickery was possible to him at Paris brought himto the ground. He wandered from cell to chapel, from chapel to woods, awaiting the dinner hour with impatience, in order to be able to speakto someone, for in his disorder a new need arose. For more than a weekhe had spent the whole afternoon without opening his lips; he did notsuffer from it, was even satisfied with his silence, but since he waspressed by this idea of departure he could not keep silence any longer, thought aloud in the walks to assuage the sensations of his swellingheart, that stifled him. 

M. Bruno was too sagacious not to guess the uneasiness of his companion, who became by turns taciturn and over talkative during the meal. Hemade, however, as though he saw nothing, but after he had said grace hedisappeared, and Durtal, who was strolling near the great pond, wassurprised to see him coming in his direction with Father Etienne. 

They greeted him, and the Trappist with a smile proposed to him, if hehad made no other plan, to pass his time in visiting the convent, andespecially the library, which the Father prior would be delighted toshow him. 

"If convenient to me! I shall be delighted!" cried Durtal. 

All three returned towards the abbey; the monk lifted the latch of alittle door fashioned in a wall near the church, and Durtal entered aminute cemetery, planted with wooden crosses on grass graves. 

There was no inscription, no flower in this enclosure which theytraversed; the monk pushed another door, which opened on a long corridorsmelling of rats. At the end of this gallery, Durtal recognized thestaircase he had ascended one morning for his confession in the prior'sroom. They left it on their right, turned into another gallery, and theguest-master led them into an immense hall, pierced by high windows, decorated with eighteenth century pier-glasses, and _grisailles_; it wasfurnished only with benches and stalls, above which was a single chairsculptured and painted with abbatial arms, which marked the place of DomAnselm. 

"Oh! this chapter-house has nothing monastic, " said Father Etienne, designating the profane pictures on the walls; "we have kept just as itwas the drawing-room of this old chateau, but I beg you to believe thatthis decoration hardly pleases us. "

"And what takes place in this hall?"

"Well, we meet here after mass; the chapter opens by reading themartyrology, followed by the concluding prayers of Prime. Then we read apassage from the rule, and the Father abbot comments on it. Lastly, wepractise the exercise of humility, that is to say, that whoever among ushas committed any fault against the rule, prostrates himself, and avowsit before his brethren. "

They went thence to the refectory. This room had also a high ceiling, but was smaller, and garnished with tables in form of a horse-shoe. Akind of large cruets, each containing two half-bottles of wine andwater, separated by a water bottle, and before them, instead of glasses, cups of brown earthenware, with two handles, were placed at equaldistances. The monk explained that these sham cruets with three branchesindicated the place of two covers, each monk having a right to his halfbottle of drink, and partaking with his neighbour the water in thebottle. 

"This pulpit, " said Father Etienne, pointing out a large wooden boxfixed against the wall, "is destined for the reader of the week, thefather who reads during the meal. "

"How long does the meal last?"

"Just half an hour. "

"Yes; and the cookery which we eat is delicate in comparison with thatwhich is served to the monks, " said the oblate. 

"I should lie if I were to affirm that we make good cheer, " answered theguest-master. "Do you know that the hardest thing to bear, in theearlier time especially, is the want of seasoning in our dishes. Pepperand spices are forbidden by our rule, and as no salt-cellar has place onour table, we swallow our food just as it is, and it is for the mostpart scarcely salted. 

"On certain days in summer, when one sweats in big drops, this becomesalmost impossible, the gorge rises. Yet one must begin upon this warmpaste, and at least swallow a sufficient quantity not to give out beforethe next day; we look at each other discouraged, unable to get anyfurther; there is not another word to define our dinner in the month ofAugust, it is a punishment. "

"And all, the Father abbot, the prior, the fathers, the brethren, havethe same food?"

"All. Now come and see the dormitory. "

They ascended to the first floor. An immense corridor, furnished like astable with wooden boxes, extended before them, closed at each end by adoor. 

"This is our lodging, " said the monk, as he stopped before one of thesecases. Cards were placed on them, affixing the name of each monk, andthe first bore a ticket with this inscription: "The Father Abbot. "

Durtal felt the bed against one of the two walls. 

It was as rough as a carding comb, and as biting as a file. It wascomposed of a simple quilted paillasse extended on a plank; no sheets, but a prison coverlet of grey wool, a sack of straw instead of pillows. 

"God! it is very hard, " said Durtal, and the monk laughed. 

"Our habits soften the roughness of this straw mattress, " he said; "forour rule does not allow us to undress, we may only take off our shoes, therefore we sleep entirely clad, our head wrapped in our hood. "

"And it must be cold in this corridor swept by all the winds, " addedDurtal. 

"No doubt the winter is rough here, but it is not that season whichalarms us; we live pretty well, even without fire in time of frost, butthe summer--! If you knew what it is to wake in habits still steeped insweat, not dried since the evening before, it is terrible!

"Then, though because of the great heat we have often hardly slept, wemust before dawn jump out of bed, and begin at once the great nightoffice, the Vigils, which last at least two hours. Even after twentyyears of Trappist life, one cannot but suffer at that getting up; inchapel you fight against sleep which crushes you, you sleep while youhear a verse chanted, you strive to keep awake, in order to be able tochant another, and fall asleep again. 

"One ought to be able to turn the key on thought, and one is incapableof it. 

"Truly, I assure you that even beyond the corporal fatigue whichexplains that state in the morning, there is then an aggression of thedemon, an incessant temptation to make us recite the office badly. "

"And you all undergo this strife?"

"All; and this does not hinder, " concluded the monk, whose face wasradiant, "this does not hinder us from being very happy here. 

"Because all these trials are nothing beside the deep and intimate joyswhich our good God gives us. Ah! He is a generous Master; he pays us ahundred-fold for our poor sorrows. "

As they spoke, they had passed through the corridor and had arrived atits other end. 

The monk opened the door, and Durtal was astounded to find himself in avestibule just opposite his own cell. 

"I did not think, " he said, "that I was living so near you. "

"This house is a regular labyrinth--but M. Bruno will take you to thelibrary where the Father prior is waiting for you; for I must go to mybusiness. We shall meet presently, " he said, with a smile. 

The library was situated on the other side of the staircase by whichDurtal reached his chamber. It was large, furnished with shelves fromtop to bottom, occupied in the middle by a sort of counter table onwhich also were spread rows of books. 

Father Maximin said to Durtal, "We are not very rich, but at any rate we possess tools for work fairlycomplete on theology and the monography of the cloisters. "

"You have superb volumes, " cried Durtal, who looked at magnificentfolios in splendid bindings with armorial bearings. 

"Wait; here are the works of Saint Bernard in a fine edition, " and themonk presented to Durtal enormous volumes, printed in heavy letters oncrackling paper. 

"When I think that I promised myself to make acquaintance with SaintBernard in this very abbey which he founded, and here I am on the eve ofmy departure, and have read nothing!"

"You do not know his works?"

"Yes; scattered fragments of his sermons and of his letters. I have runthrough some _selectĉ mediocres_ of his works, but that is all. "

"He is our chief master here; but he is not the only one of ourancestors in Saint Benedict whom the convent possesses, " said the monkwith a certain pride. "See, " and he pointed out on the shelves someheavy folios, "here: 'Saint Gregory the Great, ' 'Venerable Bede, ' 'SaintPeter Damian, ' 'Saint Anselm. ' ... And your friends are there, " he said, following Durtal with a glance as he read the titles of the volumes, "'Saint Teresa, ' 'Saint John of the Cross, ' 'Saint Magdalen of Pazzi, ''Saint Angela, ' 'Tauler, ' ... And she who like Sister Emmerich dictatedher conversations with Jesus during her ecstasy. " And the prior tookfrom the range of books in octavo, "The Dialogues of Saint Catherine ofSiena. "

"That Dominican nun is terrible for the priests of her time, " the monkwent on. "She insists on their misdeeds, reproaches them roundly withselling the Holy Spirit, with practising sortilege, and with using theSacrament to compose evil charms. "

"And there are besides the disorderly vices of which she accuses themin the series concerning the sin of the flesh, " added the oblate. 

"Certainly, she does not mince her words, but she had the right to takeup that tone, and menace in the name of the Lord, for she was trulyinspired by Him. Her doctrine was drawn from divine sources. 'Doctrinaejus infusa non acquisita, ' says the Church in the bull of hercanonization. Her Dialogues are admirable; the pages in which Godexposes the holy frauds which He sometimes uses to recall men to good, the passages in which she treats of the monastic life, of that barquewhich possesses three ropes: chastity, obedience, and poverty, and whichfaces the tempest under the conduct of the Holy Spirit, are delightful. She reveals herself in her work the pupil of the well-beloved discipleand of Saint Thomas Aquinas. One might believe that one heard the Angelof the School paraphrasing the last of the Evangelists. "

"Yes, " said the oblate, striking in, "if Saint Catherine of Siena doesnot give herself to the high speculations of Mysticism; if she does notanalyze like Saint Teresa the mysteries of divine love, nor trace theitinerary of souls destined to the perfect life, she reflects directlyat least the conversations of Heaven. She calls, she loves! You haveread, sir, her treatises on Discretion and Prayer?"

"No. I have read Saint Catherine of Genoa, but the books of SaintCatherine of Siena have never fallen into my hands. "

"And what do you think of this collection?"

Durtal looked at the title, and made a face. 

"I see that Suso hardly delights you. "

"I should tell a lie if I assured you that the dissertations of thisDominican pleased me. First, however illuminated the man may be, he doesnot attract me. Without speaking of the frenzy of his penances, whatscrupulousness of devotion and narrowness of piety was his! Think thathe could not decide on drinking till he had first, as a preliminary, divided his beverage into five parts. He thought thus to honour the fivewounds of the Saviour, and, moreover, he swallowed his last mouthful intwo gulps to call up before himself the water and the blood which flowedfrom the side of the Word. 

"No! these sort of things would never enter into my head; I would neveradmit that such practices would glorify Christ. 

"And remark well that this love of pounding things small, this passionfor small blessings, is found in all his work. His God is so difficultto content, so scrupulous, so meddling, that no one would ever get toheaven if they believed what he said. This God of his is thefault-finder of eternity, the miser of paradise. 

"On the whole, Suso expands himself in impetuous discourses on trifles;then what with his insipid allegories, his morose 'Colloquy on the NineRocks' knocks me down. "

"You will, however, admit that his study on the Union of the Soul issubstantial, and that the 'Office of the Eternal Wisdom' which hecomposed is worth reading?"

"I cannot say, Father, I do not now remember that Office; but Irecollect tolerably well the treatise on 'Union with God, ' it seems tome more interesting than the rest, but you will admit that it is veryshort ... And then Saint Teresa has also elucidated that question ofhuman renunciation and divine fruition; and, hang it then... !"

"Come, " said the oblate, with a smile, "I give up the attempt to makeyou a fervent reader of the good Suso. "

"For us, " said Father Maximin, "if we had a little time to work, thisought to be the leaven of our meditations, the subject of our reading;"and he took down a folio which contained the works of Saint Hildegarde, abbess of the Convent of Rupertsberg. 

"She, you see, is the great prophetess of the New Testament. Never, since the visions of Saint John at Patmos, has the Holy Spiritcommunicated to an earthly being with such fulness and light. In her'Heptachronon' she predicts Protestantism and the captivity of theVatican; in her 'Scivias, or Knowledge of the Ways of the Lord, ' whichwas edited, according to her recital, by a monk of the Convent of SaintDésibode, she interprets the symbols of the Scriptures, and even thenature of the elements. She also wrote a diligent commentary on ourrules and enthusiastic pages on sacred music, on literature, on art, which she defines admirably; a reminiscence, half-effaced, of aprimitive condition from which we have fallen since Eden. Unfortunately, to understand her, it is necessary to give oneself to minute researchesand patient studies. Her apocalyptic style has something retractile, which retreats and shuts itself up all the more when one will open it. "

"I am well aware that I am losing my little Latin, " said M. Bruno. "Whata pity there is not a translation of her works, with glosses to help. "

"They are untranslatable, " said the father, who went on, "Saint Hildegarde is, with Saint Bernard, one of the purest glories ofthe family of Saint Benedict. How predestinate was that virgin, who wasinundated with interior light at the age of three, and died ateighty-two, having lived all her life in the cloister!"

"And add that she was as a permanent state, prophetical!" cried theoblate. "She is like no other woman saint; all in her is astonishing, even the way in which God addresses her, for He forgets that she is awoman, and calls her 'man. '

"And she, " added the prior, "employs, when she wishes to designateherself, the singular expression, 'the paltry form. ' But here is anotherwriter who is dear to us, " and he showed Durtal the two volumes of SaintGertrude. "She is again one of our great nuns, an abbess trulyBenedictine, in the exact sense of the word, for she caused the HolyScriptures to be explained to her nuns, wished that the piety of herdaughters should be based on science, that this faith should besustained by liturgical food, if I may say so. "

"I know nothing of her but her 'Exercises, '" observed Durtal, "and theyhave left with me the memory of echoed words, of things said again fromthe sacred books. So far as one may judge from simple extracts, she doesnot appear to have original expression, and to be far below Saint Teresaor Saint Angela. "

"No doubt, " answered the monk. "But she comes near Saint Angela by thegift of familiarity when she converses with Christ, and also by theloving vehemence of what she says; only all this is transformed onleaving its proper source; she thinks liturgically; and this is so true, that the least of her reflections at once presents itself to her clothedin the language of the Gospels and the Psalms. 

"Her 'Revelations, ' her 'Insinuations, ' her 'Herald of Divine Love, ' aremarvellous from this point of view; and then her prayer to the BlessedVirgin is exquisite which opens with this phrase: 'Hail, O white lilyof the Trinity, resplendent, and always at rest.... '

"As a continuation of her works, the Benedictine Fathers of Solesmeshave edited also the 'Revelations' of Saint Mechtilde, her book on'Special Grace, ' and her 'Light of the Divinity'; they are there on thatshelf.... "

"Let me show you, " said in his turn M. Bruno, "guides wisely marked outfor the soul which escapes from itself, and will attempt to climb theeternal mountains, " and he handed to Durtal the "Lucerna Mystica" ofLopez Ezquerra, the quartos of Scaramelli, the volumes of Schram, the"Christian Asceticism" of Ribet, the "Principles of Mystic Theology" ofFather Seraphin. 

"And do you know this?" continued the oblate; the volume he offered wascalled "On Prayer, " was anonymous, and bore at the bottom of its firstpage "Solesmes, printed at the Abbey of Saint Cecilia, " and above theprinted date, 1886, Durtal made out the word written in ink, "Confidential. "

"I have never seen this little book, which seems moreover to have neverbeen brought into the market. Who is the author?"

"The most extraordinary nun of our time, the abbess of the Benedictinenuns at Solesmes. I regret only that you are going so soon, for I shouldhave been happy to let you read it. 

"As far as the document is concerned, it is of a most extraordinaryscience, and it contains admirable quotations from Saint Hildegarde andCassien: as far as Mysticism is concerned, Mother Saint Ceciliaevidently only reproduces the works of her predecessors, and she tellsus nothing very new. Nevertheless, I remember a passage which seems tome more special, more personal. Wait.... "

And the oblate turned over a few pages. "Here it is:

"'The spiritualized soul does not appear exposed to temptation properlyso-called, but by a divine permission it is called upon to conflict withthe Demon, spirit against spirit.... The contact with the Demon is thenperceived on the surface of the soul, under the form of a burn at oncespiritual and sensible.... If the soul hold good in its union with God, if it be strong, the pain, however sharp, is bearable; but if the soulcommit any slight imperfection, even inwardly, the Demon makes just somuch way, and carries his horrible burning more forward, until bygenerous acts the soul can repulse him further. "

"This touch of Satan, which produces an almost material effect on themost intangible parts of our being, is, you will admit, at leastcurious, " concluded the oblate, as he closed the volume. 

"Mother Saint Cecilia is a remarkable strategist of the soul, " said theprior, "but ... But ... This work, which she edited for the daughters ofher abbey, contains, I think, some rash propositions which have not beenread without displeasure at Rome. "

"To have done with our poor treasures, " he continued, "we have only onthis side, " and he pointed out a portion of the book-cases which coveredthe room, "long-winded works, the 'Cistercian Menology, ' 'Migné'sPatrology, ' dictionaries of the lives of the saints, manuals of sacredinterpretation, canon law, Christian apology, Biblical exegesis, thecomplete works of Saint Thomas, tools of work which we rarely employ, for as you know we are a branch of the Benedictine trunk vowed to a lifeof bodily labour and penance; we are men of sorrow for God, above allthings. Here is M. Bruno, who uses these books; so do I at times, for Ihave special charge of spiritual matters in this monastery, " added themonk with a smile. 

Durtal looked at him; he handled the volumes with caressing hands, brooded over them with the blue lustre of his eye, laughed with the joyof a child as he turned their pages. 

"What a difference between this monk who evidently adores his books, andthe prior with his imperious profile and silent lips who heard hisconfession the second day;" then thinking of all these Trappists, theseverity of their countenances, the joy of their eyes, Durtal said tohimself that these Cistercians were not at all as the world believed, solemn and funereal people, but that, quite the contrary, they were thegayest of men. 

"Now, " said Father Maximin, "the reverend Father abbot has charged mewith a commission; knowing that you will leave us to-morrow, he isanxious, now that he is better, to pass at least some minutes with you. He will be free this evening: will it trouble you to join him afterCompline?"

"Not at all; I shall be glad to talk with Dom Anselm. "

"That is understood, then. "

They went downstairs. Durtal thanked the prior, who re-entered theenclosure of the corridors, and the oblate, who went up to his cell. Hetrifled about, and in spite of the torment of his departure, whichhaunted him, reached the evening without too much trouble. 

The "Salve Regina, " which he heard perhaps for the last time thus sungby male voices; that airy chapel built of sound, and evaporating withthe close of the antiphon, in the smoke of the tapers, stirred him tothe bottom of his soul; the Trappist monastery showed itself trulycharming this evening. After the office, they said the Rosary, not as atParis, where they recite a Pater, ten Aves, and a Gloria, and so overagain; here they said in Latin a Pater, an Ave, a Gloria, and beganagain till in that manner they had finished several decades. 

This rosary was said on their knees, half by the prior, half by all themonks. It went at so rapid a pace that it was scarcely possible todistinguish the words, but as soon as it was ended, at a signal therewas a great silence, and each one prayed with his head in his hands. 

And Durtal took notice of the ingenious system of conventual prayers:after the prayers purely vocal like these, came mental prayer, personalpetitions, stimulated and set a-going by the very machine ofpaternosters. 

"Nothing is left to chance in religion; every exercise which seems atfirst useless has a reason for its being, " he said to himself, as hewent out into the court. "And the fact is, that the rosary, which seemsto be only a humming-top of sounds, fulfils an end. It reposes the soulwearied with the supplications which it has recited, applying itself tothem, thinking of them; it hinders it from babbling and reciting to Godalways the same petitions, the same complaints; it allows it to takebreath, to take rest, in prayers in which it can dispense withreflection, and, in fact, the rosary occupies in prayer, those hours offatigue in which one would not pray.... Ah! here is the Father abbot. "

The Trappist expressed to him his regret at visiting him only thus for afew moments; then after he had answered Durtal, who inquired after thestate of his health, which he hoped was at last re-established, heproposed to him to walk in the garden, and begged him not toinconvenience himself by not smoking cigarettes if he had a mind to doso. 

And the conversation turned on Paris. Dom Anselm asked for someinformation, and ended by saying with a smile, "I see by scraps ofnewspapers which come to me, that society just now is infected withsocialism. Everyone wishes to solve the famous social question. How doesthat get on?"

"How does that get on? Why, not at all! Unless you can change the soulsof workmen and masters, and make them disinterested and charitablebetween to-day and to-morrow, in what can you expect these systems toend?"

"Well, " said the monk, enwrapping the monastery with a gesture, "thequestion is solved here. 

"As wages do not exist, all sources of conflicts are suppressed. 

"As every task is according to aptitudes and powers, the fathers who arenot strong-shouldered and big-armed fold the packages of chocolate, ormake out the bills, and those who are robust dig the ground. 

"I add that the equality in our cloisters is such that the prior and theabbot have no advantage over the other monks. At table the portions, andin the dormitory the paillasses, are identical. The sole profits of theabbot consist on the whole in the inevitable cares arising from themoral conduct and the temporal administration of an abbey. There istherefore no reason why the workmen of a convent should go on strike, "concluded the abbot with a smile. 

"Yes, but you are minimists, you suppress the family and woman, you liveon nothing, and expect the only real recompense for your labours afterdeath. How can you make the people in the towns understand that?"

"The social system may thus be summed up, as I think: the masters wishto profit by the workmen, who in their turn desire to be paid as much aspossible for as little work as possible. Well, then, there is no way outof that. "

"Exactly, and there is the sad part of it, for socialism in fact arisesfrom kindly ideas, just ideas, and will always run up against egotismand gain, against the inevitable breakers of the sins of man. 

"And your little chocolate factory gives you at least some income?"

"Yes; that saves us. "

The abbot was silent for a second; then he went on, "You know, sir, how a convent is founded. I take for example our Order. A domain and the lands about it are offered the Order on condition thatit peoples them. The Order takes a handful of its monks, and settlesthem as a swarm on the soil given to it. There its task stops. The grainmust spring up of itself, or to put it differently, the Trappists, severed from their mother-house, must gain their livelihood, and sufficefor themselves. 

"So when we took possession of these buildings we were so poor, thatfrom bread to shoes everything was lacking; but we had no anxiety forthe future, for there is no example in monastic history that Providencehas not succoured abbeys who trusted in it. Little by little we drew ourfood from the estate, and we learnt useful trades; now we make ourhabits and our shoes; we reap our wheat and make our bread; our materialexistence is therefore assured, but the taxes crush us; therefore wehave founded this factory, of which the report becomes better from yearto year. 

"In a year or two the building which shelters us, and for want of moneywe have been unable to repair, will tumble down, but if God then allowsgenerous souls to come to our aid, perhaps we shall be in a condition tobuild a monastery, which is the wish of all of us; for indeed this hovelwith its rooms in confusion, and its rotunda-chapel, is painful to us. "

The abbot was silent again, then after a pause he said in a low voice, speaking to himself, "It cannot be denied, a convent which has not the look of a cloister isan obstacle to vocations; the postulant has need--and this is quitenatural--to mould himself in surroundings which please him, to encouragehimself in a church which wraps him round, in a somewhat sombre chapel;and to obtain that result you want the Romanesque or Gothic style. "

"Ah, yes, indeed. And have you many novices?"

"We have especially many subjects who desire to feel the life ofTrappists, but the greater part do not succeed in supporting our way oflife. Beside even the question of knowing whether the vocation of thebeginners is imaginary or real, we are from the physical point of viewclearly fixed after a fortnight's trial. "

"Eating vegetables only must crush the most robust constitutions; I donot even understand how, leading an active life, you can bear it. "

"The truth is that bodies obey where souls are resolute. Our ancestorsendured the life of the Trappists very well. We want souls at thepresent day. I remember that when I made my probation in a Cisterciancloister I had no health, and yet had it been necessary I would haveeaten stones!

"Moreover, the rule will soon be softened, " pursued the abbot; "but inany case there is a country which, if there should be scarcity, assuresus a good number of recruits, Holland. "

And seeing Durtal's look of astonishment, the father said, "Yes, in that Protestant country mystic vegetation is flourishing. Catholicism is all the more fervent that it is, if not persecuted, atleast despised, drowned in the mass of Calvinists. Perhaps this belongsalso to the nature of the soil, to its solitary plains, its silentcanals, to the very taste of the Dutch for a regular and peaceable life;but in that little knot of Catholics the Cistercian vocation is alwaysvery common. "

Durtal looked at the Trappist as he walked majestic and quiet, his headburied in his hood, his hands passed under his cincture. 

From time to time his eyes grew bright inside his hood, and the amethystwhich he wore on his finger sparkled in brief flames. 

No sound was heard; at this hour the monastery was asleep. Durtal andthe abbot were walking on the banks of the great pond, where the waterwas alive, it alone wakeful in the slumber of the woods, for the moon, which shone in a cloudless sky, sowed a myriad of goldfish, and thisluminous spawn, fallen from the planet, mounted, descended, sparkled ina thousand little points of fire, of which the wind as it blew increasedthe brightness. 

The abbot spoke no longer, and Durtal, who was thinking, intoxicated bythe sweetness of the night, groaned suddenly. He had just consideredthat at this same hour the next day he would be at Paris, and seeing themonastery, whose pale front appeared at the end of a walk as at the endof a dark tunnel, he cried, thinking of all the monks who inhabited it, "Ah! they are happy!"

And the abbot answered, "Too happy. "

Then gently, in a low voice, "Yes, it is true we enter here to do penance, to mortify ourselves, andwe have hardly begun to suffer when God consoles us. He is so good thatHe Himself wishes to deceive Himself about our merits. If at certainmoments He allows the Demon to persecute us, He gives us in exchange somuch happiness that there is no proportion preserved between therecompense and the sorrow. Sometimes when I think of it, I ask myselfhow there still subsists that equilibrium that nuns and monks arecharged to maintain, since neither of us suffer enough to neutralize therepeated sins of towns?"

The abbot stopped, and then went on pensively, "The world does not even conceive that the austerity of the abbeys canprofit it. The doctrine of mystical compensation escapes it entirely. Itcannot represent to itself that the substitution of the innocent for theguilty is necessary when to suffer merited punishment is concerned. Nordoes it explain to itself any more that in wishing to suffer for others, monks turn aside the wrath of heaven, and establish a solidarity in thegood which is a counter-weight against the federation of evil. Godknows, moreover, with what cataclysms the unconscious world would bemenaced, if in consequence of a sudden disappearance of all thecloisters, the equilibrium which saves it were broken. "

"The case has already presented itself, " said Durtal, who whilelistening to the Trappist thought of the Abbé Gévresin, and rememberedhow that priest had expressed himself on the same subject in nearlysimilar terms. "The Revolution, in fact, suppressed all convents withone stroke of a pen, but I think that the history of that time when somany hucksters were busy is still to be written. Instead of searchingfor documents on the acts, and even on the persons of the Jacobins, thearchives of the religious orders which existed at that time should beransacked. 

"In working thus at the side of the Revolution, in sounding itsneighbourhood, its foundations will be exhumed. Its causes will bebrought to the surface, and it will certainly be discovered that inproportion to the suppression of convents, monstrous excesses had birth. Who knows if the demoniacal madness of Carrier or Marat do not accordwith the death of an abbey whose sanctity preserved France for years. "

"To be just, " answered the abbot, "it is right to say that theRevolution destroyed ruins only. The rule of _in commendam_ ended bygiving the monasteries over to Satan. It was they, alas! that by therelaxation of their morals, inclined the balance, and drew down thelightning on the land. 

"The Terror was only a consequence of their impiety. God, whom nothinglonger withheld, let things take their course. "

"Yes; but how can you now prove the necessity of compensations to aworld which wanders out of the way in continued accesses of gain; howpersuade it that it is an urgent need, as a preventive against newcrises, to shelter towns behind the sacred bulwarks of cloisters?

"After the siege of 1870, Paris was wisely sheltered behind an immensenet of impregnable forts; but is it not also indispensable to surroundit with a cincture of prayers, to buttress its neighbourhood withconventual houses, to build everywhere in its suburbs convents of PoorClares, Carmelites, Benedictine nuns of the Blessed Sacrament, monasteries which will be in some degree powerful citadels, destined toarrest the forward march of the armies of evil?

"Certainly the towns have great need of being guaranteed againstinfernal invasions by a sanitary defence of Orders.... But come, sir, Imust not deprive you of necessary rest, I will join you to-morrow, before you quit our solitude. I have now but to say that you have onlyfriends here, and that you will be always welcome. I hope that on yourside you will keep no unfavourable memory of our poor hospitality, andthat you will prove it in coming to see us again. "

As they talked they had come in front of the guest-house. 

The father pressed Durtal's hands, and slowly ascended the stairs, sweeping with his robe the silver dust of the steps, as he mounted, allwhite, in a ray of the moon. 

CHAPTER IX. 

Durtal wished immediately after Mass to visit for the last time thatwood through which he had walked, in turn so languidly and so rapidly. He went at first to the old lime alley, whose pale emanations wereverily for his spirit what an infusion of their leaves is for the body, a sort of very weak panacea, a kindly and soothing sedative. 

Then he sat down in their shade on a stone bench. As he leant forward alittle he could see through the moving spaces in the branches, thesolemn front of the abbey, and opposite it, separated by the kitchengarden, the gigantic cross standing before that liquid plan of a churchwhich the pond simulated. 

He rose, and approached the watery cross, of which the sky turned themarble water blue, and he contemplated the great crucifix in whitemarble, which towered above the whole monastery, and seemed to riseopposite to it as a permanent reminder of the vows of suffering which hehad accepted, and reserved to himself to change at length into joys. 

"The fact is, " said Durtal, who thought over again the contradictorydeclarations of the monks, confessing that they led at once the mostattractive and the most atrocious life; "the fact is that the good Goddeceives them. They attain here below Paradise, while they seek hellthere. I have myself tasted how strange is existence in this cloister, for I have been here, almost at the same time, very unhappy and veryhappy; and now I feel well the mirage which is already beginning: beforetwo days are over the remembrance of the sorrows which then were, if Irecall them with care, greatly above the joys, will have disappeared, and I shall only recall those interior emotions in the chapel, thosedelicious stolen moments in the morning in the pathways of the park. 

"I shall regret the open-air prison of this convent. It is curious Ifind myself attached to it by obscure bonds; when I am in my cell, therereturn to me all kinds of memories, like those of an ancient race. Ifind myself at once at home again, in a place I had never seen; Irecognize from the first moment a very special life, of whichnevertheless I know nothing. It seems to me that something whichinterests me, which is indeed personal to me, passed here before I wasborn. Truly, if I believed in metempsychosis I might imagine I had beena monk in anterior existences; a bad monk then, " he said, smiling at hisreflections, "since I should have been obliged to be reincarnate and toreturn to a cloister to expiate my sins. "

While thus talking with himself, he had passed across a long alley whichled to the end of the enclosure, and, cutting across the road, andthrough the thickets, he strayed into the wood of the great pond. 

It was not in motion, as on certain days when the wind made hollows init, and swelled it, made it flow and return on itself as soon as ittouched its banks. It remained immovable, and was only stirred by thereflections of the moving clouds and of the trees. At moments a leaffallen from the neighbouring poplars swam on the image of a cloud, atothers bubbles of air came from the bottom and burst on the surface inthe reflected blue of heaven. 

Durtal looked for the otter, but it did not show itself; he saw only theswallows which skimmed the water with their wing, the dragon-flies whichsparkled like jewels, flashing like the blue flames of sulphur. 

If he had suffered near the cross-pond, before the sheet of water of theother pond he could only call up the memory of healing hours, which hehad passed lying on a bed of moss, or a couch of dry reeds, and helooked at it tenderly, trying to fix and carry it away in his memory tore-live again in Paris, shutting his eyes on the bank. 

He pursued his walk, and stopped in an alley of chestnuts along thewalls above the monastery; thence he went into the court in front of thecloister, the outbuildings, the stables, the woodsheds, even thepig-styes. He tried to see Brother Simeon, but he was probably engagedin the stables, for he did not appear. The buildings were silent, thepigs were shut up; only some lean cats prowled about in silence, scarcely looking when they met each other, going each on its own side, no doubt seeking some nourishing game which would console them for theeternal meals of vegetable soup served them at the monastery. 

Time was getting on; he prayed for the last time in the chapel, and wentto his cell to get his portmanteau ready. 

While putting his things in order he thought of the inutility ofdecorated rooms. He had spent all his money at Paris in buying ornamentsand books, for till now he had detested bare walls. 

But now, considering the blank walls of this room, he admitted tohimself that he had done better between these four white-washed wallsthan in his room at Paris, hung with stuffs. 

Suddenly he recognized that La Trappe had weaned him from hispreferences, had in a few days completely upset him. "The power of suchan environment!" he said to himself, a little alarmed at feeling how hewas transformed. And he thought in buckling his portmanteau, "I musthowever, go and find Father Etienne, for I must settle my account; Icannot be altogether a debtor to these good people. "

He went along the corridors, and ended by meeting the father in thecourt. 

He was a little confused how to open the question; at the first wordsthe guest-master smiled. 

"The rule of Saint Benedict is formal, " he said; "we must receive ourguests as we receive our Lord Jesus Himself, that is to tell you that wecannot exchange our poor care for money. "

And when Durtal insisted, embarrassed, "If it does not suit you to have partaken of our meagre pittance withoutpaying, do as you please; only the sum which you may give will bedistributed in coins of ten or twenty sous, to the poor who come eachmorning, often from a great distance, to knock at our monastery gate. "

Durtal bowed and handed the money, which he had ready in his pocket, tothe father, but he inquired if he might not have a word with FatherMaximin before his departure. 

"Certainly; moreover, Father prior would not have let you go withoutshaking hands with you. I will go and make certain if he be free. Waitfor me in the refectory. " And the monk disappeared, and came back a fewminutes afterwards, preceded by the prior. 

"Ah, well, " said he, "then you are going to plunge again into thehurly-burly?"

"Oh! without any pleasure, Father. "

"I understand that. It is so good, is it not, no longer to hear anythingand to be silent. However, take courage; we will pray for you. "

And as Durtal thanked both of them for their kind attentions, "It is a pleasure to receive a retreatant such as you, " cried FatherEtienne, "nothing repulses you, and you are so exact that you are aboutbefore the hour: you rendered my task of overseer easy. If all were aslittle exacting and as pliable. "

And he admitted that he had given lodging to priests sent by theirbishops as a penance, ecclesiastics of ill-repute whose complaints aboutfood, lodging, the need of rising early in the morning, never ceased. 

"If, again, " said the prior, "one could hope to recall them to good, tosend them back healed to their parishes; but no, they go away still morerebellious than before, the Devil does not let them alone. "

During this conversation a lay brother brought in some dishes coveredwith plates and placed them on the table. 

"We have changed the hour of your dinner, because of the train, " saidFather Etienne. 

"Good appetite, adieu, and may the Lord bless you, " said the prior. 

He raised his hand, and enwrapped Durtal, with a great sign of thecross, who knelt surprised at the sudden emotion in the monk's tone. ButFather Maximin recovered himself at once, and he bowed to him as M. Bruno entered. 

The meal was silent; the oblate was visibly distressed at the departureof the companion whom he loved, and Durtal looked with a swelling heartat the old man, who had so charitably come out of his solitude to givehim aid. 

"Will you not come some day to see me in Paris?" he said. 

"No. I have quitted life without any mind to return to it. I am dead tothe world. I do not wish to see Paris again. I have no wish to liveagain. 

"But if God lend me still a few years of existence I hope to see youhere again, for it is not in vain that one has crossed the threshold ofmystic asceticism, to verify by one's own experience the reality of therequirements which our Lord brings about. Now, as God does not proceedby chance, He will certainly finish His work by sifting you as wheat. Iventure to recommend you to try not to give way, and attempt to die insome measure to yourself, in order not to run counter to His plans. "

"I know well, " said Durtal, "that all is displaced in me, that I am nolonger the same, but what frightens me is that I am now sure that theworks of the Teresan school are exact ... Then, then ... If one mustpass-through the cylinders of the rolling mill which Saint John of theCross describes.... "

The noise of a carriage in the court interrupted him. M. Bruno went tothe window and looked out. 

"Your luggage is down. "

"Yes. "

They looked at each other. 

"Listen! I would wish indeed to say to you.... "

"No, no, do not thank me, " cried the oblate. "See, I have never sothoroughly understood the misery of my being. Ah! if I had been anotherman, I might, by praying better, have aided you more. "

The door opened and Father Etienne declared, "You have not a minute to lose, if you do not wish to miss the train. "

Thus hurried, Durtal had only time to press the hand of his friend, whoaccompanied him to the court. He found waiting a sort of open wagondriven by a Trappist, who, below a bald head, and cheeks streaked withrose threads, had a great black beard. 

Durtal pressed the hands of the guest-master and the oblate for the lasttime, when the Father abbot came in his turn to wish him a safe journey;and at the end of the court Durtal perceived two eyes fixed on him, those of Brother Anacletus, who, at a distance, said adieu by a slightbow, but without other gesture. 

Even this poor man, whose eloquent look told of a truly touchingaffection, had a saint's pity for the stranger whom he had seen sotumultuous and so sad in the desolate solitude of the wood!

Certainly the stiffness of the rule forbade all show of feeling to thesemonks, but Durtal felt thoroughly that for him they had gone to thelimit of concessions allowed, and his affliction was great as he castthem in parting a last expression of thanks. 

And the door of the monastery closed; that door at which he had trembledin arriving, and at which he now looked with tears in his eyes. 

"We must get on fast, " said the procurator, "for we are late, " and thehorse went at a great speed along the lanes. 

Durtal recognized his companion, as having seen him in the chapel, singing in the choir during the Office. 

He had an air at once good-natured and firm, and his little grey eyesmiled as it glanced behind his branched spectacles. 

"Well, " said he, "how have you borne our regimen?"

"I have had every chance; I came herewith my stomach out of order, mybody ill, and the simple Trappist meals have cured me. "

And when Durtal narrated briefly the stages of soul he had undergone, the monk murmured, "That is nothing in regard to demoniacal attacks; we have had here truecases of possession. "

"And Brother Simeon discovered them!"

"Ah! you know that.... " And he replied quite simply to Durtal, who spoketo him of his admiration for the poor lay brothers, "You are right, sir; if you could talk with these peasants andilliterate men, you would be surprised at the often profound answerswhich these people give you; then they alone at the monastery are reallycourageous; we, the Fathers, when we think ourselves too weak, acceptwillingly the authorized addition of an egg; they never; they pray more, and it must be admitted that our Lord listens to them, since they getwell again, and indeed are never ill. "

And to a question of Durtal who asked him in what consisted thefunctions of procurator, the monk answered, "They consist in keeping the accounts, in being the commercial agent, intravelling, in managing, alas! everything which does not concern thelife of the cloister; but we are so few in number at Notre Dame del'Atre, that we become necessarily Jacks-of-all-trades. For instance, Father Etienne is cellarer of the Abbey and guest-master, he is alsosacristan and bell-ringer. I too, am first cantor and professor of plainsong. "

And while the carriage rolled along, shaken by the ruts, the procuratordeclared to Durtal, who told him how much the offices chanted at themonastery had delighted him, "It is not with us that you ought to hear them; our choirs are toorestricted, too weak to be able to raise the giant mass of those chants. You ought to go to the black monks of Solesmes or Ligugé if you wish tofind the Gregorian melodies executed as they were in the Middle Ages. Bythe way, do you know in Paris, the Benedictine nuns in the RueMonsieur?"

"Yes; but do you not think they coo a little?"

"I cannot say; all the same their collection of tunes is authentic, butat the little seminary at Versailles, you have better still, since theychant there exactly as at Solesmes; note this well, moreover, at Paris, when the churches decline to repudiate liturgical music, they use forthe most part the false notation printed and spread in abundance in allthe dioceses in France by the house of Pustet of Ratisbon. "

"But the errors and frauds with which those editions abound are wellknown. "

"The legend on which its partisans rely is incorrect. To assert, as theydo, that this version is no other than that of Palestrina who wascharged by Pope Paul V. To revive the musical liturgy of the Church, isan argument destitute of truth and void of force, for everyone knowsthat when Palestrina died, he had hardly begun the correction of theGradual. 

"I will add that even if that musician had finished his work, that wouldnot prove that his interpretation ought to be preferred to that whichhas been recently constituted after patient researches by the Abbey ofSolesmes, for the Benedictine texts are based on the copy preserved atthe monastery of St. Gall of the antiphonary of Saint Gregory, whichrepresents the most ancient and the most certain monument which theChurch preserves of the true plain chant. 

"This manuscript, of which photographic facsimiles exist, is the code ofGregorian melodies, and it ought to be, if I may use the expression, theneumatic Bible of choirs. 

"The disciples of Saint Benedict are then absolutely right when theydeclare that their version alone is faithful, alone correct. "

"How then comes it that so many churches get their music from Ratisbon?"

"Alas, how comes it that Pustet has so long acquired the monopoly ofliturgical books, and ... But no, better hold one's peace ... Take thisonly for certain, that the German volumes are the absolute negation ofthe Gregorian tradition, the most complete heresy of plain chant. "

"By the way, what time is it? We must make haste, " said the procurator, looking at the watch which Durtal held up to him. "Come up, my beauty, "and he whipped up the mare. 

"You drive with spirit, " cried Durtal. 

"It is true; I forgot to say to you, that over and above my otherfunctions, I also have, if need be, that of coachman. "

Durtal thought all the same that these people were extraordinary wholived an interior life in God. As soon as they consented to redescend onearth they revealed themselves as the most sagacious and the boldest ofbusiness men. An abbot founded a factory with the few pence he succeededin gathering; he discerned the employment which suited each of hismonks, and with them he improvised artisans, writing clerks, transformeda professor of plain chant into an agent, plunged into the tumult ofpurchases and sales, and little by little the house which scarcely wasraised above the soil, grew, put forth shoots, and ended by nourishingwith its fruit the abbey which had planted it. 

Transported into another environment these people would have as easilycreated great manufactories and started banks. And it was the same withthe women. When one thinks of the practical qualities of a man ofbusiness, and the coolness of an old diplomatist which a mother abbessought to possess in order to rule her community, one is obliged to admitthat the only women, truly intelligent, truly remarkable are, outside ofdrawing-rooms, outside of the world, at the head of cloisters. 

And as he expressed his wonder aloud, that monks were so expert atsetting up business. 

"It must be so, " sighed the father, "but if you believe that we do notregret the time necessarily spent in digging the ground! then our spiritat least was free, then we could sanctify ourselves in silence which toa monk is as necessary as bread, for it is thanks to it, that he stiflesvanity as it rises, that he represses disobedience as it murmurs, thathe turns all his aspirations, all his thoughts towards God, and becomesat last attentive to His presence. 

"Instead of that ... But here we are at the station; do not troubleyourself about your portmanteau, but go and take your ticket, for I hearthe whistle of the train. "

And in fact Durtal had only time to shake hands with the father, who puthis luggage into the carriage. 

There, when he was alone, seated, looking at the monk as he departed, hefelt his heart swell, ready to break. 

And in the clatter of the rails the train started. 

Sharply, clearly, in a minute, Durtal took stock of the frightfuldisorder into which he had thrown the monastery. 

"Ah! and outside it, all is the same to me, and nothing matters to me, "he cried. And he groaned, knowing that he should never more succeed ininteresting himself in all that makes the joy of men. The uselessness ofcaring about any other thing than Mysticism and the liturgy, of thinkingabout aught else save God, implanted itself in him so firmly that heasked himself what would become of him at Paris with such ideas. 

He saw himself submitting to the confusion of controversies, thecowardice of conventionality, the vanity of declarations, the inanity ofproofs. He saw himself bruised and thrust aside by the reflections ofeverybody, obliged henceforward to advance or retire, dispute or holdhis tongue?

In any case peace was for ever lost. How in fact was he to rally andrecover when he was obliged to dwell in a place of passage, in a soulopen to all winds, visited by a crowd of public thoughts?

His contempt for relations, his disgust for acquaintances grew on him. "No, everything rather than mix myself again with society, " he declaredto himself, and then he was silent in despair, for he was not ignorantthat he could not, apart from the monastic zone, live in isolation. After a short time would come weariness and a void, therefore why hadhe reserved nothing for himself, why had he trusted all to the cloister?He had not even known how to arrange the pleasure of entering intohimself, he had discovered how to lose the amusement of bric-à-brac, howto extirpate that last satisfaction in the white nakedness of a cell! heno longer held to anything, but lay dismantled, saying, "I haverenounced almost all the happiness which might fall to me, and what am Igoing to put in its place?"

And terrified, he perceived the disquiet of a conscience ready totorment itself, the permanent reproaches of an acquired lukewarmness, the apprehensions of doubts against Faith, fear of furious clamours ofthe senses stirred by chance meetings. 

And he repeated to himself that the most difficult thing would not be tomaster the emotions of his flesh, but indeed to live Christianly, toconfess, to communicate at Paris, in a church. He never could get so faras that, and he imagined discussions with the Abbé Gévresin, his gainingtime, his refusal, foreseeing that their friendship would come to an endin these disputes. 

Then where should he fly? At the very recollection of the Trappistmonastery the theatrical representations of St. Sulpice made him jump. St. Severin seemed to him distracted and worn. How could he live amongstupid people like the devout, how listen without gnashing his teeth tothe affected chants of the choirs? How, lastly, could he seek again inthe chapel of the Benedictine nuns, and even at Notre Dame desVictoires, that dull heat radiating from the souls of the monks, andthawing little by little the ice of his poor being?

And then it was not even that. What was truly crushing, truly dreadful, was to think that doubtless he would never again feel that admirable joywhich lifts you from the ground, carries you, you know not where, norhow, above sense. 

Ah, those paths at the monastery wandered in at daybreak, those pathswhere one day after a communion, God had dilated his soul in such afashion that it seemed no longer his own, so much had Christ plunged himin the sea of His divine infinity, swallowed him in the heavenlyfirmament of His person. 

How renew that state of grace without communion and outside a cloister?"No; it is all over, " he concluded. 

And he was seized with such an access of sadness, such an outburst ofdespair, that he thought of getting out at the first station, andreturning to the monastery; and he had to shrug his shoulders, for hischaracter was not patient enough nor his will firm enough, nor his bodystrong enough to support the terrible trials of a noviciate. Moreover, the prospect of having no cell to himself, of sleeping dressedhiggledy-piggledy in a dormitory, alarmed him. 

But what then? And sadly he took stock of himself. 

"Ah!" he thought, "I have lived twenty years in ten days in thatconvent, and I leave it, my brain relaxed, my heart in rags; I am donefor, for ever. Paris and Notre Dame de l'Atre have rejected me each intheir turn like a waif, and here I am condemned to live apart, for I amstill too much a man of letters to become a monk, and yet I am alreadytoo much a monk to remain among men of letters. "

He leapt up and was silent, dazzled by jets of electric light whichflooded him as the train stopped. 

He had returned to Paris. 

"If they, " he said, thinking of those writers whom it would no doubt bedifficult not to see again, "if they knew how inferior they are to thelowest of the lay brothers! if they could imagine how the divineintoxication of a Trappist swine-herd interests me more than all theirconversations and all their books! Ah! Lord, that I might live, live inthe shadow of the prayers of humble Brother Simeon!"