“But is this possible to any but a saint?  What a stripping of the soul it presupposes; what an emptying out of every profane idea, of every earthly image; what a taming of the subjugated imagination, never venturing forth but on one track, instead of wandering haphazard as mine does!

“And yet how foolish is every other care—­for all that does not tend to Heaven is vain on earth.  Aye, but as soon as I try to put these thoughts into, practice, my jade of a soul plunges and rears; do what I will, it only bucks and makes no advance.

“Alas!  Blessed Virgin, I do not seek to excuse myself and my sins.  And still I dare confess to Thee that it is discouraging, heart-breaking, to understand nothing and see nothing!  Is this Chartres where I am vegetating a waiting-place, a halting-place between two monasteries, a bridge leading from Notre Dame de l’Atre to Solesmes or some other Abbey?  Or is it, on the contrary, the final stage where it is Thy will that I should remain fixed?  But then my life has no further meaning!  It is purposeless, built and overthrown with the shifting of sands.  To what end, if this be the case, are these monastic yearnings, these calls to another life, this all but conviction that I have stopped at a station, and am not yet at the place whither I am to travel?

“If only it might be now, as on other occasions when I have felt Thee near me, when in response to my questions Thou hast answered me, if only it might be here as at La Trappe, much as I suffered there!  But no.  I hear Thee not—­Thou dost not heed me.”

Durtal was silent.  Then he went on,—­

“I am wrong to address Thee thus,” he said.  “Thou dost not carry us in Thine arms unless we be unable to walk; Thou hast care and caresses for the poor soul born anew by conversion; but when it can stand it is set down on the ground, and Thou lookest on while it makes trial of its strength.

“This is meet and right; but it does alter the fact that the memory of those celestial alleviations, those first, lost joys is crushing to the soul.

“O Holy Virgin, Holy Virgin, have pity on the rickety souls that struggle on so painfully when they are no longer upheld by Thee!  Have pity on the bruised souls to whom every effort is painful; on the souls whom nothing can console, to whom everything is affliction!  Take pity on the homeless, outcast souls, the wandering souls, unable to settle and dwell with their kind, the tender, budding souls!  Take pity on all souls such as mine!  Have pity on me!”

And before quitting the Mother he would often visit Her in those depths where, since the Middle Ages, the faithful no longer seek her; he would light an end of taper, and, turning aside from the nave of the crypt, follow the curved line of the wall along the entrance passage as far as the sacristy of this underground church, where in the ponderous stone-work was a door strengthened with iron-work.