“In point of fact, their particular function is not at all to bury themselves under the accumulated dust of ages, nor even to accept in substitution the sins and woes of others as the Orders of pure mortification do—­the Carmelites and the Poor Clares.  Their vocation is to fill the office of the Angels; it is a task of joy and peace, an anticipation of their inheritance of gladness beyond the grave; in fact, the work which is nearest to that of purified spirits, the highest on earth.

“To fulfil their duty fittingly, besides ardent piety, a thorough knowledge of the Scriptures is required, and a refined feeling for art.  Thus a true Benedictine must be at once a saint, a learned man, and an artist.”

“And what is the daily life of Solesmes?” asked Durtal.

“Very methodical and very simple:  Matins and Lauds at four in the morning; at nine o’clock tierce, mass for the brethren, and sext; at noon dinner; at four nones and vespers; at seven supper; at half-past eight compline and deep silence.  As you see, there is time for meditation and work in the intervals between the canonical hours and meals.”

“And the oblates?”

“What oblates?  I saw none at Solesmes.”

“Indeed—­then if there are any, do they lead the same life as the Fathers?”

“Evidently; excepting, perhaps, some dispensations depending on the Abbot’s favour.  I can tell you this much:  that in some other Benedictine Houses that I have visited the general system is that the oblate shall follow as much of the rule as he is able for.”

“Still, he is, I suppose, free to come and go—­his actions are free?”

“When once he has taken the oath of obedience to his Superior, and, after his term of probation, has adopted the monastic habit, he is as much a monk as the rest, and consequently can do nothing without the Father Superior’s leave.”

“The deuce!” muttered Durtal.  “Of course, if the ridiculous metaphor so familiar to the world were accurate, if the cloister were rightly compared to a tomb, the condition of the oblate would also be tomb-like, only its walls would be less air-tight, and the stone, a little tilted, would admit a ray of daylight.”

“If you like!” said the Abbe, laughing.

As they walked, they had reached the Bishop’s palace.

They went into the forecourt, and saw the Abbe Gevresin making his way to the gardens; they joined him, and the old priest asked them to go with him to the kitchen garden, where, to oblige his housekeeper, he was to inspect the seeds she had sown.

“Aye, and I too promised long ago to look at the vegetables,” exclaimed Durtal.

They went down the ancient paths and reached the orchard on the slope; and as soon as Madame Bavoil caught sight of them she grounded arms, so to speak, setting her foot in gardener fashion on the spade she had stuck into the soil.

She proudly pointed to her rows of cabbages and carrots, onions and peas, announced that she intended to make an attempt on the gourd tribe, expatiated on cucumbers and pumpkins, and to conclude, declared that at the bottom of the kitchen garden she meant to have a flower-bed.