“And those porches!” he went on.  “That of the royal front is the least variable; it remains of a cinnamon-brown half-way up, of a dull pumice-grey as it rises; that on the south side, more eaten into by lichens, is wearing green, while the arches on the north, with their stones like concrete full of shells, suggest to the fancy a sea-grotto left high and dry.”

“Well, our friend, are you dreaming?” said Madame Bavoil, tapping him on the shoulder.

“This Carmelite convent you see is a very austere house,” said she, “and as you may suppose, grace abounds;” and when Durtal murmured,—­

“What a contrast between this dead spot and the railway that runs past it, always in a stir!” she exclaimed,—­

“Do you suppose that anywhere else you will find, side by side, such an image of the contemplative life and the active life?”

“And what must the nuns think as they hear these continual departures for the outer world?  Those who have grown old in the convent would, of course, despise these calls, these invitations to live; the quietude of their spirits must increase as they find themselves protected for ever from the perils which the noisy rush of the trains must bring before them every hour of the day and night; they will feel more drawn to pray, for those whom the chances of life carry away to Paris, or bring back to the country, outcasts from the city.  But the postulants—­the novices?  In the hours of desertion, of doubt as to their vocation, which must come over them, is it not appalling to think of the constantly revived memories of home, of friends, of all that they have left to shut themselves up for ever in a convent?

“As each asks herself whether she can endure watching and fasting, must it not be a permanent temptation to rebel against being buried alive in a tomb?

“And I cannot help thinking of the appearance as of a reservoir that the style of building gives to this Carmel.  The image is precise, for the convent is indeed a reservoir into which God dips to draw forth the good works of love and tears, and restore the balance of the scales in which the sins of the world are so heavy!”

Madame Bavoil smiled.

“A very old Carmelite nun,” said she, “who had gone into this House before railways were invented, died here hardly three months ago.  She had never been outside the walls, and never saw an engine or a railway carriage.  Under what form could she picture to herself the trains she heard thundering and shrieking?”

“As some diabolical invention, no doubt, since these conveyances carry us to the wicked but delightful sins of towns,” replied Durtal, smiling.  “But it is a curious case, nevertheless.”

He was silent; then, changing the subject, he said,—­

“And do you still hold communion with Heaven, Madame Bavoil?”

“No,” she answered, sadly.  “I no longer have any converse or any visions.  I am deaf and blind.  God is silent to me.”