Through and down a little flight of steps, he reached a cellar which was the ancient martyrium where, of old, in time of war the ciborium was concealed.  An altar stood in the middle of this well, dedicated in the name of Saint Lubin.  In the crypt the distant hum of the bells, the sounds of life in the cathedral above, could still be heard; here, nothing!  It was like being in the tomb.  Unfortunately, some squalid, square columns whitened with lime-wash, built on the altar to give support to Bridan’s group in the choir above, spoilt the barbaric simplicity of this oubliette, forgotten, lost in the night of ages, and underground.

He went up again comforted nevertheless, accusing himself of ingratitude, and asking himself how he could dream of leaving Chartres and going away from the Virgin, with whom he could thus so easily converse in solitude whenever he would.

On other days, when it was fine, he would take for the object of his walk a convent whose existence had been revealed to him by Madame Bavoil.  One afternoon he had met her in the square, and she had said to him,—­

“I am going to see the little Jesus of Prague at the Carmelite convent here.  Will you come with me, our friend?”

Durtal had no liking for these petty pilgrimages made by good women; but the idea of going to the Carmelite chapel, which was unknown to him, tempted him to accompany her, and she led the way to the Rue des Jubelines, behind the railway line and beyond the station.  They had to cross a bridge that groaned under the weight of rolling trains, and turned to the right down a path winding between the embankment on one side, and on the other thatched huts, and old sheds, and other houses less poverty-stricken, indeed, but closed and impenetrable after daybreak.  Madame Bavoil led him to where this alley ended under the arch of another bridge.  Overhead was a siding, with its signals round and square, red and yellow, and posts with cast-iron ladders; and there always in the same place an engine was being fired, or, with shrill whistling, was moving out backwards.

Madame Bavoil stopped at a door under a round arch in an immense wall, which not far off ran against the embankment, forming an impassable angle; it was built of millstone grit of the colour of burnt almonds, like that used for the Paris reservoirs; here dwelt the nuns of Saint Theresa.

Madame Bavoil, as being used to convent ways, pushed open the door which stood ajar, and Durtal saw before him a paved walk between strips of river pebbles, dividing a garden stocked with fruit-trees and geraniums.  Two yews, clipped into spheres, with a cross on the top of each, gave this priestly close a graveyard flavour.

The path led upwards, cut into steps.  When they reached the top Durtal saw a building of brick and plaster pierced with windows guarded by iron bars, and a grey door with a wicket bearing these words painted in white, “O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who put our trust in Thee.”