"I have not confessed, since my childhood; since then I have led a

shameful 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 was

shaken, 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 despair

at the view of his sins, and crushed also at finding himself thus

abandoned, without a word of kindness, without help. It seemed to him

that all was giving way, that he was lost, repulsed even by Him who yet

had 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 back

at nine o'clock to-morrow, we shall have time before us, we shall not

then be hurried by any office; from now till then, think of the story of

Calvary; the cross, which was made for the sins of the whole world, lay

so heavily on the shoulders of the Saviour, that His knees bent and He

fell. A man of Cyrene passed by who helped the Lord to bear it. You, in

detesting, in weeping for your sins, have alleviated and rendered

lighter, if one may say so, the cross of the burthen of your sins, and

having made it less heavy, have thus allowed Our Lord to lift it.

"He has recompensed you by the most astonishing of miracles, the miracle

of having brought you here from so far off. Thank Him, then, with all

your heart, and be not discomforted. You will say to-day for your

penance, the Penitential Psalms, and the Litany of the Saints. I will

give you my blessing."

And the prior blessed him and went out. Durtal raised himself up after

his tears; what he feared so much had happened; the monk who would take

him in hand was impassive, almost dumb. "Alas!" he thought, "my

abscesses 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 his

cell, "this Trappist was compassionate at last, not so much in what he

said, as the tone in which he said it; then, to be just, he was perhaps

confused by my tears; the Abbé Gévresin certainly did not tell Father

Etienne 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 the

world, over whose head a shower bath is suddenly discharged.

"Well, we shall see to-morrow;" and Durtal made haste to sponge his

face, for it was nearly eleven o'clock and the office of Sext was about

to begin.

He went to the chapel, which was almost empty, for the brothers were

working 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 he

could 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 Trappist

sang 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 with

its series of psalms, accented in short tones on the one side, and long

on the other.

Durtal, as he knelt, allowed himself to be rocked by the psalmody, too

tired to be able to pray himself.

Then, when Sext was ended, all the fathers meditated, and Durtal caught

a look of pity from the prior, who turned a little towards his bench. He

understood that the monk implored the Saviour for him, and perhaps asked

God 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 oblate

announced the presence of a new guest.

"A retreatant?"

"No; a curate from the neighbourhood of Lyons, he has come to see the

abbot, who is ill."

"But I thought the abbot of Notre Dame de l'Atre was the tall monk who

led 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 his

bed before you go."

They reached the guest-house, and found Father Etienne making excuses to

a 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 of

gluttony which must so often be committed at La Trappe, then tasted,

pretending a chuckle of delight, the scentless bouquet of the poor wine

he poured out, and lastly, when he divided with a spoon the omelette

which 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 to

Durtal, "This is a barley-fed fowl, may I offer you a wing?"

This kind of pleasantry exasperated Durtal, who had no wish to laugh

that day; he therefore was satisfied to make a vague bow, wishing to

himself 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 definite

form, 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 to

get to the water, but we always lose its traces at the same spot. We

have watched for days with Father Etienne, but it has never shown

itself."

The abbé explained various traps which might be set with advantage.

Durtal thought of the otter-hunt which Balzac tells so pleasantly at the

beginning 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 give

us."

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 his

soul had not still that infatuation which had broken it in tears at the

monk'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 he

hesitated 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 than

the Seraphic Doctor, than a Saint who had always remained pure,

sheltered from falls. For she too had been a carnal sinner; she too had

reached the Saviour from afar.

A married woman, she lived in adultery and shame; lovers succeeded one

another, and when she had exhausted them she threw them aside like

husks. Suddenly grace rose in her and made her soul break forth; she

went to confession, not daring to avow the more awful of her sins, and

she communicated, thus grafting sacrilege upon her other faults.

She lived, day and night tortured by remorse, and finally prayed to

Saint Francis of Assisi to help her; and the next night the saint

appeared 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 to

church, heard a priest preaching, understood she must address herself to

him, and laid all before him in a full confession.

Then began the trials of an appalling life of purification. In blow

after blow she lost her mother, her husband, her children; she went

through such violent temptations to impurity that she was obliged to

seize on lighted coals and cauterize the plague of her senses with fire.

During two years the demon sifted her. She parted her goods among the

poor, assumed the habit of the Third Order of Saint Francis, gathered in

the sick and infirm, and begged for them in the streets.

One day a feeling of sickness came over her before a leper whose sores

were stinking. To punish herself she drank the water in which she had

washed the sores; she was overcome with nausea; and punished herself

yet more by forcing herself to swallow a scab which had not gone down

with 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 of

visions dawned on her. Jesus treated her as a spoilt child, called her,

"My sweetest, my well-beloved daughter;" He dispensed her from the

necessity of eating, and nourished her only with the Sacred Species; He

called her, drew her, absorbed her in uncreated light, and by

anticipating her inheritance, enabled her to understand, in life, the

joys of heaven.

And she was so simple and timid that she feared in spite of all, for the

memory 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 and

drag myself to the market-place to proclaim my shame."

And He consoled her: "Be easy, My daughter, My sufferings have atoned

for your sins;" and as she reproached herself for having lived in

opulence and having delighted in clothes and jewels, He addressed her,

smiling: "To buy you riches, I have wanted for everything; you required

a great number of clothes, and I had but one garment of which the

soldiers stripped Me, for which they drew lots; My nakedness was the

expiation of your vanity in ornaments."

And all her conversations with Christ were in this tone. He passed His

time in comforting this humble creature whom His benefits overwhelmed;

and this has made her the most loving of the saints! her work is a

succession of spiritual outpourings and caresses; her book is such a

living hearth that beside it the volumes of other mystics seem but dull

coal.

"Ah," said Durtal to himself, in turning over these pages, "it was

indeed the Christ of Saint Francis, the God of mercy who spoke to this

Franciscan!" and he went on: "that ought to give me courage, for Angela

of Foligno was as great a sinner as I am, but all her sins were

remitted! Yes, but then what a soul she had, while mine is good for

nothing; instead of loving, I reason; nevertheless it is right to

remember that the conditions of the Blessed Angela were more favourable

than mine. Living in the thirteenth century she had a shorter journey

to make to approach God, for since the Middle Ages, each century takes

us further from Him! she lived in a time full of miracles, which

overflowed with Saints. For me, I live in Paris in an age when miracles

are rare and Saints scarcely abound. And once away from here, what a

vista is before me of falling away, of soaking myself in a stew of

infamy, in a bath of the sins of great cities."

"By the way" ... he looked at his watch and started; it was two

o'clock--"I have missed the office of Nones," he said; "I must simplify

my complicated horary, or I shall never know where I am;" and at once he

traced in a few lines:

"Morning. Rise at 3 o'clock, or rather at 3.30. Breakfast at 7--Sext at

11, dinner at 11.30--Nones at 1.30--Vespers at 5.15--Supper at 6, and

Compline at 7.25."

"There, at least that is clear and easy to remember--If only Father

Etienne have not noticed my absence from chapel!"

He left his room. "Ah, here is the famous rule," he said to himself, on

seeing 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 the

printed 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 observed

that he had not seen him in his place during the office. Durtal excused

himself as well as he could. The monk said no more, but Durtal

understood that he was observed, and that under his childlike aspect the

guest-master would, where discipline was concerned, hold him in an iron

grip. He was confirmed in this impression when at Vespers he noticed

that the monk's first glance on entering the chapel was at him, but that

day he felt so sore and broken that he cared but little. This sudden

change of existence, and of the manner in which he had been accustomed

to spend his time, astounded him, and since the crisis of the morning he

had 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 a

mere inert mass.

CHAPTER III.

He woke with a bound at eleven o'clock, with an impression of someone

looking 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 till

four 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 up

that 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 to

side in long threads with every gust of wind.

A lay brother was assisting him, a small man with black hair and a

shaven head, like a ball painted blue; he looked like a bandit, with his

beard in disorder and his worn-out robe of felt.

And the eyes of this bandit were gentle and startled like those of a

little boy. He served the priest with an almost timid respect and a

suppressed joy which was touching to see.

Others, kneeling on the flagstones, prayed with concentrated attention

or read their mass. Durtal noticed the old man of eighty, immovable with

outstretched face and closed eyes; and the youth whose look of pity had

helped him near the pond, was following the office in his prayer-book

with attentive meditation. He looked about twenty years old, tall and

strong; his face, with an air of fatigue, was at once masculine and

tender, with emaciated features, and a light beard which fell over his

habit in a point.

Durtal gave way to his emotions in this chapel, where everyone did a

little 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 would

completely explore his soul.

And he felt himself less dismayed, more master of himself, and firmer.

He collected and pulled himself together, feeling a melancholy

confusion, but he had no longer the sense of desolation which had

overcome him the evening before. He set his mind on the idea that he

would not abandon himself, that he would help himself with all his

might, 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 the

high altar.

Durtal was absorbed in his prayer-book, but he ceased reading when the

priest had consumed the Species, for all rose, and he was amazed at a

sight of which he had never dreamed, a communion of monks.

They advanced in single file, silent and with downcast eyes, and when

the first arrived before the altar, he turned round to embrace the

comrade who followed; he in turn took in his arms the religious who

followed him, and so on to the last. All, before receiving the

Eucharist, 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 the

line, they made their way very slowly with closed eyes and joined hands.

The faces seemed to be somewhat altered; they were differently lit from

within; it seemed that the soul, driven by the power of the Sacrament

against the sides of the body, filtered through the pores and lit up the

skin with a special light of joy, with that kind of brightness which

pours from white souls, and makes way like a rose-coloured vapour along

the cheeks, and shines, as if concentrated, on the brow.

Watching the mechanical and hesitating gait of these monks, it seemed as

if their bodies were no more than automata moving from habit, and that

the souls, being elsewhere, gave no heed to them.

Durtal recognized the old lay brother, bent so much that his face

disappeared in his beard which pressed against his chest, and his two

great knotty hands trembled as he clasped them; he also noticed the tall

young 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 did

not communicate, for he saw M. Bruno coming last from behind the altar

and returning to his place with folded arms. This exclusion brought home

to him clearly how different he was, and how far apart, from those

around him! All were admitted, and he alone remained outside. His

unworthiness was more apparent, and he grew sad at being put aside,

looked on, as he deserved to be, as a stranger, separated like the goat

of the Scriptures, penned, far from the sheep, on the left of Christ.

These reflections were of use to him, for they relieved him of the

terror of confession which was again coming over him. This act seemed to

him so natural and just, in his necessary humiliation and unavoidable

suffering, that a desire came over him to accomplish it at once, so that

he might appear in this chapel purified and washed, and with at least

some resemblance to the others.

When the mass was over, he made his way towards his cell to get a tablet

of chocolate.

At the top of the stairs M. Bruno, with a large apron round him, was

getting ready to clean the steps.

Durtal looked on him with surprise. The oblate smiled and shook hands

with 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 after

living in the world."

And he began sweeping vigorously, and collecting into a pan the dust

which like pepper filled every crevice in the floor.

Durtal carried his tablet into the garden. "Let us consider," he said to

himself as he nibbled it; "supposing I took another walk and tried an

unknown part of the wood?" And he felt no wish to do so. "No, placed as

I am, I would rather haunt the same spot and not leave the places to

which I am accustomed; I am already so little under control, and so

easily disturbed, that I do not wish to risk anything by curiosity to

see new places." And he went down to the cross pond. He went along the

banks, and having reached the end, was astonished to find, a few steps

farther, a stream spotted with green pellicules, hollowing its way

between two hedges which fenced in the monastery. The fields stretched

out beyond, and the roofs of a large farmhouse were visible in the

trees, and all round the horizon on hills were forests which seemed to

stop the way before the sky.

"I imagined the grounds were larger," he said to himself, retracing his

steps; and having reached the end of the cross pond, he gazed on the

huge wooden crucifix reared in the air which was reflected in that black

mirror. It sank down, seen from behind, trembling in the small waves

stirred up by the breeze, and seemed to fall whirling round in that

stretch of ink. And as the body of the marble Christ was hidden by the

wood, 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 recumbent

cross, and thinking of his soul, which, like the pond, was tanned and

stained by a bed of dead leaves and a dunghill of sins, he pitied the

Saviour whom he was about to invite to bathe Himself there, for it would

no longer be the Martyr of Golgotha to whom at all events death came on

a hill, His head high, by daylight, in the open air! but it would be by

an 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," he

cried to himself. And the swan, till then motionless in an arm of the

pond, swept over the lamentable image in advancing, and whitened the

moving mourning of the waters with its peaceful reflection.

And Durtal thought of the absolution which he would perhaps obtain, and

he reopened his prayer-book and numbered his faults; and, slowly, as on

the day before, he tapped, in his innermost being, a fountain of tears.

"I must control myself," he said, trembling at the idea that he would

suffocate again and be unable to speak; and he resolved to begin his

confession at the other end, first going over the minor sins, keeping

the great ones for the end so as to finish with the avowal of his carnal

misdeeds: "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 only

absolve me!"

He shook off his sadness, left the pond, and returning to the lime

avenue, he interested himself in a closer inspection of the trees. They

raised huge trunks, covered with reddish-brown stonecrop, silvered grey

by mosses; and several that morning were wrapped as in a mantle trimmed

with 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, the

arrival of nine o'clock, to have done with, to get rid of the weight

upon his soul, and he prayed mechanically, without knowing what he

mumbled, always thinking on this confession, full of alarm and harassed

with fears.

He went down a little before the time, and when he entered the

auditorium his heart failed him.

In spite of himself, his eyes were fixed upon the prie-Dieu, where he

had suffered so cruelly.

To think that he had to put himself on that hurdle again, to stretch

himself on that rack of torture! He tried to collect himself, to compose

himself--and he drew himself up quickly; he heard the footsteps of the

monk. The door opened, and, for the first time, Durtal dared to look the

prior in the face; it seemed to be hardly the same man, nor the face, he

had noticed from a distance; the profile was so haughty, and the full

face so sweet; the eye dulled the proud energy of the features, an eye

familiar and deep, when at the same time there was a quiet joy and a sad

pity.

"Come," he said, "do not be disturbed, you are about to speak to our

Saviour alone, who knows all your faults." And he knelt down and prayed

for 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. He

accused himself of faults common to all men, want of charity towards his

neighbour, 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 am

obliged 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 I

confessed to you, yesterday, since my first communion I have given up

everything; prayers, mass, everything; I have denied God, I have

blasphemed, 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 his

tears.

"Let us see," the monk said gently; "you told me yesterday that you had

committed 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 alters

the nature of the sin, whether in your case there have been any private

sins, 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 have

committed 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 terrible

effort to him; yet crushed as he was by shame, he was beginning to

breathe, when suddenly he plunged his head again in his hands.

The remembrance of the sacrilege in which Madame Chantelouve had made

him share, came back to him.

Hesitatingly he confessed that he had from curiosity assisted at a black

mass, and that afterwards, without wishing it, he had defiled a Host

which 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 which

Heaven has worked in you.

"You were sick, so sick that what Martha said of the body of Lazarus

might truly have been said of your soul, 'Iam foetet!' And Christ has,

in some manner, raised you. Only do not deceive yourself, the conversion

of a sinner is not his cure, but only his convalescence; and this

convalescence sometimes lasts for several years and is often long.

"It is expedient that you should determine from this moment to fortify

yourself against any falling back, and to do all in your power for

recovery. The preventive treatment consists of prayer, the sacrament of

penance, and holy communion.

"Prayer?--you know it, for without much prayer you could not have

decided 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 was

painful to you; it will be less so now that you no longer have to avow

the accumulated sins of years. The communion troubles me more; for it is

to be feared that when you have triumphed over the flesh the Demon

should await you there, and endeavour to draw you away, for he knows

well that, without this divine government, no healing is possible. You

will 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, for

you will be more unhappy than less cultured and simpler beings. You will

be tortured by the imagination. It has made you sin much; and, by a just

recompense, it will make you suffer much; it will be the badly closed

door of your soul by which the Demon will enter and spread himself in

you. 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 a

certain hostility to the rosary."

"I admit that this mechanical manner of saying prayers wearies me a

little; I do not know why, but it seems to me that at the end of some

seconds I can no longer think of what I am saying; I should mock, and

should 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, and

yet they are delighted to listen! Why should not our Lord, who is a good

Father, love to hear His children when they drawl, or even when they

talk nonsense?"

And after a pause he went on,

"I scent the devil's artifice in what you say, for the highest graces

are attached to this crown of prayers. The most Blessed Virgin herself

revealed to the saints this means of prayer; she declared she delighted

in 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 God

wished that all graces should come to us through her. St. Bernard

expressly 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 will

for 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 the

inclination towards evil; each man encourages it more or less; as for

you, since you grew up, the scar has been always open, but as you hate

the wound God will close it.

"So I will say nothing of your past, as your repentance and your firm

resolve to sin no more efface it. To-morrow, you will receive the pledge

of reconciliation, you will communicate; after so many years the Lord

will set out on the way to your soul and will rest there; approach Him

with great humility, and prepare yourself from this moment, by prayer,

for this mysterious meeting of hearts which His goodness desires. Now

say your act of contrition and I will give you holy absolution."

The monk raised his arms, and the sleeves of his white cowl rose above

him like two wings. With uplifted eyes he uttered the imperious formula

which breaks the bonds, and the three words, "Ego te absolvo," spoken

more distinctly and slowly, fell upon Durtal, who trembled from head to

foot. He almost sank to the ground, incapable of collecting himself or

understanding himself, only feeling, in the clearest manner, that Christ

Himself was present, near him in that place, and finding no word of

thanks, he wept, ravished and bowed down under the great sign of the

cross 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 a

cloister it will be born again; it is a good omen; have confidence in

our Lord and go in peace."

And the father added, pressing his hand, "Do not be afraid of disturbing

me, I am entirely at your service, not only for confession, but for

interviews and for any advice which may be of use to you; you quite

understand me?"

They left the auditorium together; the monk bowed to him in the corridor

and disappeared. Durtal hesitated whether to meditate in his cell or in

the 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 thousand

nothings, if only from the way your poor eyes are now shining, that you

had not been reconciled when you landed here? Now I have just met the

reverend father returning to the cloister, and I find you coming out of

the auditorium; there is no need to be particularly sly to guess that

the great wash has just taken place."

"But," said Durtal, "you could not have seen the prior with me, for he

had left before you came in, and he might have been performing some

other duty."

"No, for he was not in his scapular; he had his cowl on. And as he

never puts on that robe except to go to church or at confessions, I was

quite certain that he came from the auditorium, as there is no office at

this hour. I may also point out that as the Trappists do not come to

confession in this room, two persons only could have been with him, you

or I."

"You may say as much," replied Durtal, laughing.

Father Etienne met them in the midst of all this, and Durtal asked him

for a rosary.

"But I have not one," exclaimed the monk.

"I have several," said M. Bruno, "and shall be most happy to offer you

one. 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 lived

in 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, a

bed, a mahogany bureau, a large book-case full of ascetic books, an

earthenware stove and some arm-chairs. These articles were evidently the

property of the oblate, for they were nothing like the furniture of La

Trappe.

"Pray be seated," said M. Bruno, indicating an arm-chair; and they

conversed.

Having first discussed the Sacrament of Penance, the talk came round to

the subject of Father Maximin, and Durtal admitted the high bearing of

the prior had terrified him at first.

M. Bruno laughed. "Yes," he said, "he produces that effect on those who

never come near him, but when one associates with him, one finds that he

is only strict for himself, for no one is more indulgent to others. In

every acceptation of the term he is a true and holy monk; besides, he

has great judgment...."

And as Durtal spoke to him of the other cenobites, and wondered that

there 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 long

sorrows or disorderly lives, is absolutely false; besides, to be able to

stand the weakening rule of the cloister it is necessary to begin

young, and not to come in worn out with every kind of abuse.

"It is also necessary to avoid confounding misanthropy with the monastic

vocation; it is not hypochondria, but the divine call, which leads to La

Trappe. There is a special grace, which makes all young men who have

never lived in the world long to bury themselves in silence and therein

suffer 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 the

lay brothers, for example.

"Think of their giving themselves up to the most painful labour, and

that they have not, like the fathers, the consolation of singing and

assisting at all the offices; remember that even their reward, the

communion, is not very often conceded to them.

"Now think of the winter here. The cold is frightful; in these decayed

buildings nothing shuts properly, and the wind sweeps the house from top

to bottom; they freeze without fires, they sleep upon pallets, and they

cannot help or encourage each other, for they hardly know each other, as

all conversation is forbidden.

"Think, also, that these poor people never hear a kindly word, a word

which would soothe and comfort them. They work from dawn till night, and

the master never thanks them for their zeal, never tells the good

workman that he is pleased.

"Consider, also, that in summer when men are hired from the neighbouring

villages to reap the harvest, these rest when the sun scorches the

fields; 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 his

heavy clothes looks at them and goes on with his work, and neither eats

nor 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 is

relaxed?"

"Never; there is not even, as in some very strict orders--the

Carmelites, to take one instance--an hour of recreation, when the

religious 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' of

Climacus, the Lives of the Fathers of the Desert, or some other pious

book."

"And on Sunday?"

"On Sunday they rise an hour earlier; but on the whole it is their best

day, for they can follow all the offices and pass their whole time in

church."

"Humility and self-denial carried to such an extent are superhuman!"

cried Durtal. "But they are surely given a sufficient quantity of strong

nourishment to enable them to give themselves up from morning till

evening to exhausting work in the fields?"

M. Bruno smiled.

"They simply get vegetables which are not even as good as those which

are served to us, and, by way of wine, they quench their thirst with a

sour 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 four

o'clock. From Easter to the 14th September, when the Cistercian fast is

less strict, dinner is at about half-past eleven, and to this may be

added a light meal in the evening."

"It is frightful! to work for months on one meal a day, two hours after

noon, after being up since two o'clock in the morning; having had no

dinner the evening before."

"It is sometimes necessary to relax the rule a little, and when a monk

fails from weakness he is not refused a morsel of bread.

"It would be well," continued M. Bruno, pensively, "to relax still

further the grasp of these observances, for this question of food is

becoming a veritable stumbling-block in recruiting for La Trappe; souls

which delight in these cloisters are forced to fly them, because their

bodies 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 complete

equality. Only, the fathers have the advantage of singing the office and

obtaining more frequent communions."

"Among the lay brothers there are two who have interested me

particularly, one quite young, a tall fair man with a pointed beard, the

other a very old man, quite bent?"

"The young one is Brother Anacletus; this young man is a veritable

column of prayer, and one of the most precious recruits whom Heaven has

bestowed 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 an

extraordinary soul, a true saint, who already lives absorbed in God. We

will talk of him at greater length another day, for it is time we went

down; the hour of Sext is near.

"Wait, here is the rosary which I am pleased to offer you. Allow me to

add to it a medal of Saint Benedict." And he made over to Durtal a small

wooden 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 five

o'clock, and at that the rule prevents your communicating alone. Father

Benedict, who usually says an earlier mass, went away this morning and

will not return for two days. There is some mistake."

"But the prior positively declared to me that I should communicate

to-morrow!" exclaimed Durtal. "Not all the fathers here, then, are

priests?"

"No, in fact, as to priests, there is the abbot who is ill, the prior

who will offer the sacrifice to-morrow at five o'clock, Father Benedict

of whom I spoke to you, and another whom you have not seen and who is

travelling. And then, if it had been possible, I also should have

approached the Holy Table."

"Then, if the fathers are not all ordained, what difference is there

between those who have obtained the priesthood and the simple lay

brothers?"

"Education--to be a father a man must have studied, must know Latin, and

in a word must not be what the lay brothers are, peasants or workmen. In

any case I shall see the prior, and as to the communion to-morrow, I

will let you know, after the office. But it is tiresome; it is a pity

you could not have come up this morning, with us."

Durtal made a gesture of regret. He went into the chapel, dwelling on

this misfortune and praying God not to delay his re-entry into grace any

longer.

After Sext, the oblate came to rejoin him. "It is just as I thought," he

said, "but nevertheless you will be admitted to take the Sacrament. The

father prior has arranged with the curate who dines with us. He will say

a 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 to

receive the Eucharist from the hands of a priest of passage, from a

jovial priest such as this man! "Ah, no, I have confessed to a monk, and

I wished to receive the communion from a monk!" he exclaimed. "It would

have been better to wait till Father Benedict returned--but what can I

do? I can hardly explain to the prior how repugnant this unknown priest

is to me, and how terribly painful it would be to me, after having gone

through so much, to end by being thus reconciled in a cloister."

And he complained to God, telling Him that all the joy he might have

felt in being purified and clean at last, was now spoilt by this

disappointment.

He arrived at the refectory hanging his head.

The curate was there already. Seeing Durtal's sad demeanour, he

charitably tried to cheer him, but the jokes he attempted produced the

opposite effect. Durtal smiled in order to be polite, but his air was so

wearied that M. Bruno, who saw it, turned the conversation and

monopolized the priest.

Durtal was in a hurry for his dinner to be over. He had eaten his egg

and was painfully swallowing a warm potato soup made with hot oil, which

from its appearance might have been mistaken for vaseline; but he now

cared little about his food.

He said to himself, "It is dreadful to carry away an irritating and

painful recollection of a first communion--and I know it will haunt me

for ever. I know well enough that from a theological point of view it

does not matter whether I am dealing with a priest or a Trappist; both

are but interpreters between God and me, but yet, I feel very well that

it is not at all the same thing. For once at least I need a guarantee of

certain holiness, and how can I have it with an ecclesiastic who hawks

about jokes like a bagman?" He stopped, remembering that the Abbé

Gévresin, fearing this mistrust, had specially sent him to a Trappist

monastery. "What a run of ill-luck!" he said to himself.

He did not even hear the conversation which was going on beside him

between the curate and the oblate.

He struggled with himself all alone, as he chewed, with his nose in his

plate.

"I do not wish to communicate to-morrow," he went on, and he was

shocked. He was cowardly, and becoming foolish at the last. Would not

the Saviour give Himself to him all the same?

He rose from the table, stirred by a dull anguish, and he wandered in

the park and went down the paths as chance led him.

Another idea was now growing in him, an idea that Heaven was inflicting

a trial upon him. "I want humility," he repeated. "Well, it is to punish

me that I am refused the joy of being sanctified by a monk. Christ has

forgiven me, that is much. Why should He do more by taking note of my

preferences and granting my wishes?"

This thought appeased him for a few minutes, and reproaching himself

for 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 once

to be a little humble! but I have to recite my rosary." He seated

himself on the grass and began.

He had not reached the second bead, when misunderstanding again pursued

him. He began again on the Pater and Ave, and went on thinking no more

of the sense of his prayers, reflecting: "What ill-luck that the one

monk who says mass every day should be away, so that I have to go

through such a disappointment to-morrow!"

He was silent and had a moment of calm, when suddenly a new element of

trouble 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 ten

rosaries?"

"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 rosary

ten times a day; that would amount to something like five hundred

prayers 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 he

would proportion it to the greatness of the sins. And as I have such

repugnance for these drops of devotion taken in globules, it is natural

that he should gorge me with a large dose of the rosary!

"Still ... still ... it cannot be! I should not have even time for it

all in Paris; it is absurd!"

And the idea that he was deceiving himself came intermittently charging

back.

"Still, there must be no haggling; in ecclesiastical language 'ten'

means ten beads; no doubt ... but I remember very well that after he

pronounced the word rosary, the father expressed himself thus: 'you will

say ten,' that means ten rosaries, for otherwise he would have specified

ten ... of a rosary."

And so he thrust and parried with himself--"The father had no need to

put the dots on all the i's, if he were using an ordinary phrase, known

to everyone. This cavilling about the value of a word is ridiculous."

He tried to get rid of this torment by appealing to his reason; and

suddenly there came out some argument which unsettled him.

He found out that it was through cowardice, idleness, desire for

contradiction and the necessity of rebelling, that he did not wish to

wind his ten reels. "Of the two interpretations I have chosen the one

which would relieve me of all effort and trouble, it is really too

easy!--that alone proves that I deceive myself when I try to persuade

myself 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 a

penance!"

And then he answered himself, "But it is much for you, for you cannot

even 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 himself

together; "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 and

not one more!"

He remained nonplussed, almost frightened at his condition which was new

to him.

And, to get out of the difficulty, to silence himself, he thought of a

new idea to conciliate both parties, which seemed most concise and which

presented at least a provisional solution.

"In any case," he reflected, "I cannot communicate to-morrow if I do not

complete my penance to-day; in the doubt, the wisest course is to yoke

myself to the ten rosaries; later I shall see; if necessary I shall be

able to consult the prior. It is true that he will think me an idiot if

I speak to him of these rosaries! so I shall not be able to ask him

that!"

"But then, you see, you admit yourself, it can only be ten beads!"

He was furious with himself, and for silence' sake rushed upon the

rosary.

He might well shut his eyes, and try to collect himself, it was

impossible for him at the end of the second ten to follow his prayers;

he hesitated, forgetting the large beads of the Paters, losing his way

in the small beads of the Aves, stamping on the ground.

To check himself, he thought of transporting himself in imagination at

each dose, into one of the chapels of the Virgin which he loved to

attend in Paris, at Notre Dame des Victoires, at St. Sulpice, at St.

Severin; but these Virgins were not numerous enough for him to dedicate

each set of ten to them, so he evoked the Madonnas of the early masters,

and, absorbed before their images, he turned the windlass of his

prayers, not understanding what he mumbled, but praying the Mother of

the Saviour to accept his paternosters, as she would receive the lost

smoke of a censer forgotten before the altar.

"I cannot force myself any more," he said. He left this toil worried and

crushed and wanting to take breath; there were still three rosaries to

exhaust.

And as soon as he had stopped, the question of the Eucharist, which had

been dropped, came up again.

"Better not to communicate than to communicate badly;" and it was

impossible that after such debates and with such prejudices he could

properly approach the Holy Table.

"Yes, but then what shall I do?--in reality, was it not monstrous of me

to 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 much

to-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 keep

himself before the Virgin at least was used up. When he wished to

abstract himself and to bring up a recollection of Memling, he could not

succeed, 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 in

the Little Office of the Virgin, and did not grasp a single word of the

phrases he was reading. He went down and began to prowl about the park

again.

"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 for

to-morrow's act, yet never have I been so restless, so upset, so far

from God!

"But I must finish this penance!" Despair seized him, and he was on the

point of letting all go; he mortified himself again, and compelled

himself to tell the beads.

He finished by despatching them; he was at the end of his powers. And he

immediately 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 was

on the point of beginning the rosary over again, but in the face of the

evident folly of this suggestion he pulled himself up, refused to

listen, and then he worried himself again.

"It is none the less true that you have not literally fulfilled the task

assigned you by the confessor, for your conscience reproaches you for

your want of reflection and your wandering."

"But I am half dead!" he exclaimed. "I cannot go through the exercises

again in this condition!"--and once again he ended, by giving a casting

vote, and finding a new weakness.

By saying over another ten, thoughtfully pronouncing the prayers with

care, he might make up for all the beads of the rosary which he had

mumbled 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 then

his mind gave way and became thoroughly distracted.

He stopped, thinking, "What is the use of it? besides, would one set of

ten, however well said, be equal to five hundred prayers that have

missed fire? and then why one set of ten and not two, why not three? it

is absurd!"

He grew angry; "After all," he concluded, "these repetitions are absurd;

Christ positively declared that we should not use vain repetitions in

our 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 the

revolt which was rumbling in him.

He took refuge in his cell; the hours lengthened interminably; he killed

the time by recapitulating all the same objections with all the same

answers. It was a repetition of which he was himself ashamed.

"So much is certain, that I am the victim of an aberration," he said. "I

do not speak of the Eucharist; there my thoughts may not be exact, but

at least they are not maddening, while as for this question of

paternosters!"

He confused himself so much that he felt hammered like an anvil between

these two opposing ideas, and finally sank drowsily on a chair.

Thus he passed the time till the hour of vespers and supper. After this

meal he returned to the park.

And then the slumbering dispute revived and all came back. A furious

battle was raging within him. He remained there, immovable, astounded,

listening to himself, when a rapid footstep approached and M. Bruno said

to 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 at

this moment that the devil is working in you. Let us see, what is wrong

with you?"

"I ... I do not know myself;" and Durtal told him of the extraordinary

conflict about the rosary which had been raging in him since the

morning.

"But this is madness," exclaimed the oblate; "it is ten beads the prior

ordered 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 render

disgusting the thing you ought to do. Yes, the devil wished to make the

rosary 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, after

conversions the Evil One is at work; and it is nothing, believe me; he

was 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 the

rosary to recite every day for a month, and, since this morning, I have

been arguing with myself against all common sense, to convince myself

that 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. So

you have told all the beads ten times to-day?"

Durtal signified assent.

"And naturally you were perplexed, you lost all patience, and ended up

by rambling."

And seeing Durtal's pitiful smile,

"Well, listen to me," declared the father, in an energetic tone, "I

absolutely forbid you for the future to begin a prayer again; it has

been 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 to

you, for that comes of itself; it is there that the enemy directs all

his efforts. Do not listen to the devil's voice which would keep you

away; whatever happens you will communicate to-morrow. You should have

no scruple, for I command you to receive the Sacrament; I take it all

upon 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 of

the feeling of being spied upon which had awakened him the day before.

"We have long known these manifestations, they are without imminent

danger; do not therefore let them trouble you. At the same time, if they

continue you will let me know, and we will not neglect attending to

them."

And the Trappist left quietly, while Durtal remained thinking.

"I never doubted that those phenomena were satanic," he thought, "but I

did not understand these attacks upon the soul, this charge at full

speed against my reason which remains untouched, and yet is overcome;

that is remarkable; if only this lesson may be useful to me so that I

may not be unhorsed on the first alarm!"

He went up to his cell again and a great peace fell upon him. All had

died down at the voice of the monk; he now only felt surprise at having

been off the rails for hours; he understood now that he had been

assailed unawares and that the struggle had not been with himself.

He said his prayers and lay down. And, suddenly, the assault began again

by 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 my

thoughts in the day-time, I ought to have thanked the Lord for having

absolved 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 not

think of it? Then I ought to have confessed again. And this priest who

will give me the communion, this priest!"

The horror which he felt for this man increased suddenly and became so

vehement that he was astonished. "Ah, but there I am again knocked about

by the enemy," he said, and he went on:

"All that shall not prevent me from receiving the Heavenly Bread

to-morrow, for I have quite decided; only how frightful it is that the

Spirit of Malice should be allowed to oppress and harass me without

respite while I have no sign from Heaven which does not interfere, and I

know nothing.

"Ah! Lord, if I were only certain this communion would please Thee! Give

me a sign, show me that I may ally myself with Thee without remorse; let

the impossible take place so that, to-morrow, it may be a monk and not

this priest...."

And he stopped himself, astonished at his boldness, asking himself how

he dared ask for, and indicate a sign.

"It is idiotic!" he exclaimed; "in the first place, no one has a right

to claim such favours from God; and then, as He will not grant my

prayer, what shall I have gained? I shall infer from the refusal that my

communion will be worth nothing!"

And he prayed the Lord to forget his wish, excused himself for having

formed it, and wished to convince himself that He should not take it

into account, and, helped by the agitations of the day, he ended by

falling asleep as he prayed.

CHAPTER IV.

When he left his cell he said to himself, "This morning I shall

communicate," and these words, which should have thrilled him through

and through, woke no zeal in him. He remained dull, tired and caring for

nothing, 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 before

the priest; I know that the congregation should communicate after the

celebrant; but at what moment exactly ought I to move? It is indeed

another misfortune that I should have to go up, alone, towards this

Table which so disturbs me; otherwise I shall only have to follow the

others 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 the

oblate could not be found. Durtal sat down, disabled, dreaming of the

sign he had asked for the evening before, endeavouring to throw off the

recollection, thinking of it all the same.

He wished to examine himself and collect himself, and he was praying

Heaven to forgive him his mental vacillations when M. Bruno came in, and

went to kneel before the statue of the Virgin.

Almost at the same minute a brother, who had a beard like seaweed

growing from a face like a pear, took up to the altar of St. Joseph a

small rustic table on which he placed a basin, a towel, two vases and a

napkin.

Before these preparations, which recalled the imminence of the

Sacrifice, Durtal stiffened himself and succeeded by an effort in

keeping back his anxieties and overthrowing his troubles, and escaping

from himself he ardently implored Our Lady to intervene so that he

might, for this hour at least, without wandering, pray in peace.

And when he had finished his prayer he lifted his eyes and looked with a

start at the priest who was advancing, preceded by a lay brother, to

celebrate 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 his

eyes cast down when he suddenly noticed a violet flame light up his

fingers.

"He wears an episcopal ring, he is a bishop," thought Durtal, who leant

forward to see the colour of the vestment underneath the chasuble and

alb. It was white.

"Then it is a monk," he said, astounded; and, mechanically, he turned

towards the statue of the Virgin, summoning the oblate by a hasty

glance, 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 not

dreaming! 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, to

spread himself in a passion of gratitude; he knew and wished it! And

without knowing how, he was exercising himself in seeking natural causes

which might account for the substitution of a monk for the priest.

No doubt it was very simple; for on the whole, before admitting a kind

of miracle.... "anyhow, I will keep an open mind, for after the ceremony

I wish to clear the matter up."

And he repelled the insinuations which crept into him. Well! what

interest could there be in the motive of this change? there clearly must

be a motive, but it was only a consequence, an accessory; the important

point was the supernatural will which had produced it. "In any case you

have obtained more than you asked; you have even a better than the

simple 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; to

have the faith of a child, an immovable faith, a faith which cannot be

rooted up! Ah, Father, Father, bury it, rivet it in me!"

And such was his enthusiasm that he came out of himself; all around him

seemed to disappear and he cried, stammering, to Christ: "Lord, go not

far 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 accompany

him. They went up to the altar and knelt upon the flagstones, then, when

the priest had blessed them, they knelt closer on the single step, and

the 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, anæsthetized his mind; he fell on his

knees at his bench, incapable even of unravelling what might be moving

within him, unable to rally and pull himself together.

And all of a sudden the impression came over him that he was suffocating

and wanted air; the mass was finished; he rushed out and ran to his

walk; there he wished to take an account of himself and he found

nothing.

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 it

came to itself, he was astonished that he had not felt an unknown

transport of joy; then he dwelt on a troublesome recollection, on the

all too human side of the deglutition of a God; the Host had stuck

against his palate, and he had had to seek it with his tongue and roll

it about like a pancake in order to swallow it.

Ah! it was still too material! he only wanted a fluid, a perfume, a

fire, a breath!

And he tried to explain to himself the treatment that the Saviour made

him follow.

All his anticipations had returned; it was the absolution and not the

communion which had worked. When with the confessor he had very clearly

perceived the presence of the Redeemer; all his being had, in a manner,

been injected with divine effluvia, and the Eucharist had only brought

him suffocation and trouble.

It seemed that the effects of the two Sacraments had changed places the

one with the other; they had worked the wrong way with him; Christ had

been perceptible to his soul before and not afterwards.

"But it is easy enough to see," he reflected, "that the great question

for me is to have an absolute certainty of my forgiveness! By a special

favour, Jesus has ratified my faith in the healing power of Penance. Why

should He have done more?"

"And then, what bounties would He reserve for His saints? After all I am

astonishing. It is too much that I should wish to be treated as He

certainly treats Brother Anacletus and Brother Simeon."

"I have obtained more than I deserve. And what an answer I had, this

very morning? Yes, indeed, but why should such advances end suddenly in

this recoil?"

And making his way towards the abbey to eat his bread and cheese, he

said to himself: "My error towards God is to be always arguing, when I

ought to adore stupidly as these monks here do. Ah! to be able to keep

silence, silence to one's self, that is indeed a grace!"

He reached the refectory, which, as a rule, he had to himself, M. Bruno

never coming to the meal at seven o'clock in the morning. He was

beginning to cut himself a piece of bread, when the father guest-master

appeared.

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 they

want it badly." And he placed them on a table in a small room attached

to the refectory.

"Well, are you satisfied?" he said, on coming back.

"Certainly--but, what happened this morning, how is it I was

communicated by the abbot of La Trappe, when I should have been by the

curate 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 what

took him. Then they told him that a retreatant would communicate and he

answered 'Just so, I shall communicate him.' And then M. Bruno took the

opportunity of also approaching the Sacrament, for he loves to receive

our 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 has

been able to say his mass in a parish where he was expected.... By the

way, he told me to make his excuses to you for not having been able to

bid you good-bye."

Durtal bowed. "There is no doubt about it," he thought, "God wished to

give me an unmistakable answer."

"And your health?"

"It is good, father; I am astounded; my digestion has never been so good

as it is here; to say nothing of the fact that the neuralgia, which I

feared 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 you

this--how are your offices arranged? They do not correspond with those

printed in my prayer-book."

"No, they differ from yours, which belong to the Roman ritual. At the

same time, the Vespers are almost similar, except sometimes the lessons,

and then what may put you out is that ours are often preceded by the

Vespers of the Blessed Virgin. As a general rule we have a psalm less in

the office, and the lessons are nearly always short.

"Except," Father Etienne went on, smiling, "in Compline, the very one

you 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 commemoration

of the Blessed of our order which you will not find in your books. In

fact we follow the letter of the monastic breviary of Saint Benedict."

Durtal had finished his breakfast. He rose, fearing to trouble the

father by his questions.

One word of the monk, however, was troubling his brain, that relating to

the prior as a doctor; and before going out he spoke of this again to

Father Etienne.

"No--the Reverend Father Maximin is not a doctor, but he understands

simples very well, and he has a small pharmacy which is enough as long

as no one is seriously ill."

"And in that case?"

"In that case the practitioner can be called in from one of the nearest

towns, but no one is ever so ill as that; or else the end is approaching

and 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 a

glade where stood the ruins of an ancient convent, some bits of wall,

truncated columns and capitals in the Roman style; unhappily these

remains were in a deplorable condition, rough, covered with moss and

riddled with holes like pumice stones.

He went on and came to the end of a long walk, at the top of which was a

pond 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, near

a wooden bench, stood a cast-iron statue of the Virgin.

He groaned as he looked at it. The crime of the church followed him once

more; even in this little chapel so full of divine compassion, all the

statues came from the religious bazaars of Paris or Lyons.

He took his position below, near the pond whose banks were bordered by

reeds surrounded by tufts of osiers; and he amused himself by examining

the colours of these shrubs, with their smooth green leaves and stalks

of citron yellow, or blood red, noticing the curling water which began

to foam with a gust of wind. And the martins skimmed it, touching it

with the tips of their wings from which drops of water fell like pearls

of quicksilver. And the birds rose whirling above and giving out their

cries of weet, weet, weet, while the dragon-flies shone brightly in the

air which they slashed with blue flames.

"Peaceful refuge!" thought Durtal; "I ought to have come to rest here

before." He sat down on a bed of moss and interested himself in the

noiseless and active life of the waters. Now the splash and flash of the

turn of a leaping carp; now great spiders skating on the surface, making

little circles and driving one against another, stopping, going back and

making 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 in

red lead on a black ground.

And above all that, if he raised his eyes, there was the silent upturned

sea 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 billowed

under a blueish gray glass.

Durtal felt himself expand as he smoked cigarettes; the melancholy which

had oppressed him since the dawn began to melt away, and joy crept into

him as he felt his soul was washed in the pool of the Sacraments and

dried 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, had

removed all the doubts he had entertained as to the supernatural side to

the 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 all

the disorders of his life, but that He was encouraging him and giving

him pledges, ratifying the signs of His favours by perceptible acts. And

nevertheless he was uneasy, for he knew himself to be barren, and felt

that it was necessary for him to be grateful for this goodness by a

struggle with himself and an entirely new existence differing completely

from that he had hitherto led.

"Well, we shall see!" and he went off to the office of Sext almost

calmed, 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 the

walls would do you good, and I proposed to the Reverend Father Abbot to

free you from the rule for to-day, if the offer is not disagreeable to

you."

"I gladly accept, and thank you sincerely for your kind attention," said

Durtal.

They dined off a soup made with oil in which a stick of cabbage and some

peas were swimming; it was not bad; but the bread made at La Trappe

reminded him, when stale, of the bread in the siege of Paris, and made

the 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 to

Dom Anselm, who has expressed a wish to know you."

And M. Bruno led Durtal through a labyrinth of passages and staircases

to a small cell where the abbot was. He was dressed like the fathers in

a white robe and a black scapular; only at the end of a violet cord he

bore 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 receiving

a reply in the affirmative from Durtal he inquired if the long silence

did 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 who

have borne our rule so easily. Generally those who have tried to make a

retreat here have been devoured by home sickness and spleen, and have

had 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 some

painful privations; there must be at least one which you feel above all

the others?"

"True, I feel the want of being able to light a cigarette whenever I

like."

The abbot answered smiling, "But I suppose you have not been entirely

without 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 no

mention of it in his rule, and I am therefore free to allow its use; so

smoke 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, I

am obliged to keep my room, in that case I shall be happy to have a

longer 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 mass

this morning; but let us see, we will first of all visit the grounds of

La Trappe which you can hardly have been over completely, then we will

leave the enclosure and push on to the farm."

They started, skirting the remains of the ancient abbey, and as they

walked, turning by the piece of water near which Durtal had been seated

in the morning, M. Bruno entered into explanations about the ruins.

"This monastery was founded in 1127 by St. Bernard, who installed the

Blessed Humbert as abbot, an epileptic Cistercian, whom he had cured by

a miracle. At that time there were apparitions in the convent; a legend

relates that two angels came and cut one of the lilies planted in the

cemetery every time one of the monks died.

"The second abbot was the Blessed Guerric, who was famous for his

knowledge, his humility and his patience in enduring evils. We possess

his relics and they are enclosed in the shrine under the high altar.

"But the most remarkable of the superiors, who succeeded each other here

in the middle ages, was Peter Monoculus, whose story was written by his

friend, the member of the synod, Thomas de Reuil.

"Pierre, called Monoculus, or the one-eyed, was a saint thirsting for

austerities and sufferings. He was assailed by horrible temptations at

which he laughed. Exasperated, the Devil attacked his body and, by fits

of 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 he

thanked our Lord for this blessing, 'I had' he said, 'two enemies; I

have escaped the first, but the one I retain troubles me more than the

one 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 to

kiss it. Monoculus died in 1186; they soaked linen cloths in his blood,

and washed his entrails in wine which was distributed, for the mixture

was a powerful remedy.

"The property of the abbey was then immense; it comprised all the

country which surrounds us, kept up several lazar houses in the

neighbourhood, 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 with

only six religious to look after it when the Revolution suppressed it.

The church was then pulled down and afterwards replaced by the rotunda

chapel.

"Only in 1875 the present house, which I think dates from 1733, was

reconciled and became a monastery again. Trappists were brought here

from Sainte Marie de la Mer, in the diocese of Toulouse, and this small

colony 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 precious

fragments might be discovered, but for want of money and men no

excavations have been made.

"In addition to the broken columns and the capitals we passed, there

remains from the old church a large statue of the Virgin which has been

erected in one of the corridors of the abbey; besides this there are two

angels fairly well preserved and which you may see down there at the end

of the cloister in a small chapel, hidden behind a curtain of trees."

"A virgin, before which St. Bernard may possibly have knelt, ought

surely to have been put in the church on the altar dedicated to Mary,

for the coloured statue, which surmounts it, is of crying

ugliness--like that one also," said Durtal, pointing out in the distance

the 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 not

persist and changed the conversation, "do you know that I envy you

living here?"

"It is certain that I do not deserve this favour, for, on the whole, the

cloister 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 give

himself up to this mystic life which only develops in solitude and

silence."

"Yes, and if possible, I envy you yet more that you should have had the

courage to venture into regions which, I confess, frightened me. And I

know so well that, in spite of the spring-board of prayers and fasts, in

spite of the green house, or orchid house atmosphere, wherein mysticism

is grown, I should wither away in these regions without ever expanding

again."

The oblate smiled. "What do you know about it?" he replied, "the thing

is not done in an hour; the orchid you speak of does not flower in a

day; the advance is so slow, that mortifications space themselves out,

fatigues are distributed over years, and, on the whole, are easily

borne.

"As a general rule it is necessary, to cross the distance which

separates us from the Creator, to go through three grades to attain that

science of Christian perfection which is called mysticism; we must live

in turn the life of Purification, of Illumination and of Unity--to join

the uncreated Good and be poured out in Him.

"It matters little that these three grand phases of ascetic existence

subdivide themselves into an infinity of stages; which are degrees

according to Saint Bonaventure, dwelling places according to Saint

Teresa, steps according to Saint Angela; they may vary in length and

number, according to the will of the Lord and the temperament of those

who go through them. It is not disputed that the journey of the soul

towards God includes, first, perpendicular and breakneck roads--these

are the roads of the life of Purification--next, narrower paths still,

but well marked out and accessible--these are the paths of the life of

Illumination--at length, a wide road almost smooth, the road of the

life of unity, at the end of which the soul throws itself into the

furnace of Love, and falls into the abyss of the most adorable Infinity!

"On the whole, these three ways are successively reserved to those who

start in Christian asceticism, to those who practise it, and finally to

those who attain to the supreme end, the death of self and the life in

God.

"Long," pursued the oblate, "I have placed my desires beyond the

horizon, yet I progress little; I am scarcely disengaged from the life

of Purification, scarcely...."

"And you do not fear--how shall I say--material infirmities, for if at

last you succeed in attaining the limits of contemplation, you risk the

ruin of your body for ever. Experience seems to show, in effect, that

the deified soul acts on the constitution and brings incurable

troubles."

The oblate smiled. "In the first place I should, no doubt, fail to

attain to the last degree of initiation, the extreme point of mysticism;

then, supposing I attain it, what would corporal accidents be in the

face of such results?

"Let me also assure you that these accidents are neither so frequent nor

so certain as you seem to think.

"A man may be a great mystic, or an admirable saint, and not be the

subject of visible phenomena for those who surround him. Would you not

think, for example, that levitation, or the flight of bodies in the air,

which seems to constitute the highest state of rapture, is one of the

rarest? Whom can you quote to me? Saint Teresa, Saint Christina the

Admirable, Saint Peter of Alcantara, Dominic of Mary Jesus, Agnes of

Bohemia, Margaret of the Blessed Sacrament, the Blessed Gorardesca of

Pisa, and above all Saint Joseph of Cupertino, who raised himself at

will from the ground. But they are ten or twenty out of thousands of the

elect!

"And note well that these gifts do not prove their superiority over

other Saints. Saint Teresa declares expressly: it must not be imagined

that anyone, blessed as he may be in this respect, is better than those

who are not so blessed, for our Lord directs each one according to his

particular need.

"And then the doctrine of the Church is seen in the untiring prudence

shown in the canonization of the dead. Qualities and not extraordinary

acts decide this; for the Church, miracles themselves are only secondary

proofs, 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. These

phenomena have rather hindered than helped them. After having beatified

them for their virtues, the Church has put off--and no doubt for a long

time--their promotion to the sovereign dignity of Saints.

"It is difficult, on the whole, to formulate an exact theory on this

subject, for if the cause, if the mental action is the same in all

mystics, it differs a little, as I have said, according to God's will

and the character of the subjects; the difference of sex often changes

the form of the mystic flow, though in essence it never varies; the rush

of the Spirit from on High may produce different effects, but is none

the less identical.

"The only observation we dare make in these matters is that women, as a

rule, are more passive and less reserved, while men resist more

violently the wishes of Heaven."

"That makes me think," said Durtal, "that even in religion there are

souls which seem to have mistaken their sex. Saint Francis of Assisi,

who was all love, had rather the feminine soul of a nun, and Saint

Teresa, who was the most attentive of psychologists, had the virile soul

of a monk. We might correctly speak of Saint Francis as a woman and

Saint Teresa as a man."

The oblate smiled. "To return to your question," he resumed, "I do not

at all believe that illness can be the necessary consequence of

phenomena aroused by the impetuous force of mysticism."

"But look at Saint Colette, Lidwine, Saint Aldegonde, Jane-Mary of the

Cross, Sister Emmerich and how many more who passed their existence,

half paralyzed, upon a bed! They are a small minority. Besides, the

Saints or Blessed ones whose names you quote were victims of

substitution, expiating the sins of others, a part God had reserved to

them; it is not, therefore, surprising that they were bed-ridden and

cripples, 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 Saint

Hildegarde, a phrase at once just and sinister: 'the Lord dwells not in

the bodies of the healthy and vigorous,' and you might add, with Saint

Teresa, that evils are more frequent in the last of the castles of the

soul. Yes, but these saints hoist themselves on the summit of life and

retain God in a permanent manner in their carnal shell. Having reached

this 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 very

existence of mysticism is resolutely denied by some who in consequence

can never admit the possibility of any influence over the bodily organs,

but the experience of this supernatural reality is from all time, and

proofs abound.

"Let us take the stomach for example. Well, under the heavenly

influence, it becomes transformed, omits all earthly nourishment and

consumes the Holy Species only.

"Saint Catherine of Siena and Angela of Foligno lived for years

exclusively on the Sacrament; and this gift devolved equally upon Saint

Colette, Saint Lidwine, Dominic of Paradise, Saint Columba of Rieti,

Mary Bagnesi, Rose of Lima, Saint Peter of Alcantara, Mother Agnes of

Langeac and on many others.

"Under the divine impress the senses of smell and taste presented no

less strange metamorphoses. Saint Philip Nevi, Saint Angela, Saint

Margaret of Cortona recognized a special taste in unleavened bread, when

after the consecration there was no longer any wheat, but the very flesh

of Christ. Saint Pacomius knew heretics by their foul smell; Saint

Catherine of Siena, Saint Joseph of Cupertino and Mother Agnes of Jesus

discovered sins by their evil odours; Saint Hilarion, Saint Lutgarde,

Gentilla of Ravenna, could tell merely by the scent of those whom they

met what faults they had committed.