“And besides—­besides—­is not the weariness that is crushing me to some extent the fault of the Abbe Gevresin?  By compelling me to much repetition he has exhausted in me the soothing and, at the same time, subversive virtue of the Sacrament; and the most evident result of this treatment is that my soul has collapsed and has no spirit to reinvigorate it.

“No, no,” he went on presently.  “Here I am working back on my perennial presumption, my incessant round of cares; and once more I am unjust to the Abbe.  But it is certainly no fault of his if frequent Communion makes me cold.  I look for sensations; but the very first thing should be to convince myself that such cravings are contemptible, and next, to understand clearly that it is precisely because Communion is so frigid that it is the more meritorious and virtuous, yes, that is very easy to say; but where is the Catholic who prefers such coldness to a glow?  The saints may, no doubt; but even they suffer under it!  It is so natural to entreat God for a little joy, to look forward to an Union consummated by a loving word, a sign—­a mere nothing that may show that He is present.

“Say what they may, we cannot help being pained by a dead absorption of that living bread!  And it is very hard to admit that Our Lord is wise when He keeps us in ignorance of the ills from which it preserves us and the progress it enables us to make, since, but for that, we might be defenceless against the attacks of self-conceit and the assaults of vanity—­helpless against ourselves.

“In short, whatever the reason, I am no better off at Chartres than in Paris,” was his conclusion.  And when these reflections beset him, especially on Sundays, he regretted having accompanied the Abbe Gevresin into the country.

In Paris, in old days, he at any rate got through the hours at the services.  He could attend Mass in the morning at the Benedictine chapel or at Saint Severin, and go to Saint Sulpice for vespers or compline.

Here there was nothing; and yet where were there more promising conditions for the performance of Gregorian music than at Chartres?

Setting aside a few antiquated basses who could only bark, and whom it would be necessary to dismiss, there was a whole sheaf of rich young voices, a school of nearly a hundred boys who could have rolled out in clear, sweet tones the broad melodies of the old plain-song.

But in this ill-starred cathedral an inept precentor gave out, by way of liturgical canticles, a perfect menagerie of outlandish tunes, which, let loose on Sunday, seemed to scamper like marmosets up the pillars and under the roof.  And the artless voices of the choir-boys were drilled to these musical monkey-tricks.  At Chartres it was impossible to attend High Mass in the cathedral with any decent devotion.

The other services were not much better; indeed, Durtal was reduced to attending vespers at Notre Dame de la Breche, in the lower town, a chapel where the priest, a friend of the Abbe Plomb, had introduced the use of Solesmes, and patiently trained a little choir composed of faithful working-men and pious boys.