She shook her head, and, after a pause, she added, speaking to herself,—­

“Such a little thing is enough to displease Him.  If He detects a trace of vanity in the soul on which He shines, He departs.  And as the Father tells me, the mere fact of having spoken of the special graces vouchsafed to me by Jesus, proves that I am not humble.  In short, His will be done!—­And you, our friend, do you still think of taking shelter in a cloister?”

“I—­my spirit still craves a truce; my soul is but shifting ballast.”

“Because, no doubt, you are not honest in your dealings.  You behave as if you meant to strike a bargain with Him; that is not the way to set to work.”

“What would you do in my place?”

“I should be generous; I should say to Him, ’Here I am, do with me as Thou wilt.  I give myself unconditionally to Thee.  I ask but one thing:  Help me to love Thee.’”

“And do you suppose that I have not blamed myself for my cowardice of heart?”

They walked on in silence.  When they reached the cathedral, Madame Bavoil proposed that they should pay a visit to Notre Dame du Pilier.

They seated themselves in the gloom of the side aisle of the choir, where the dark-toned windows were still further obscured by a poorly executed wooden niche, in which the Virgin, as dark as her namesake in the crypt, Notre Dame de Sous-Terre, stood on a pillar, hung round with bunches of metal hearts and little lamps on coronas, from the roof.  Frames of tapers on each side shot up little tongues of flame, and prostrate women were praying, their faces hidden in their hands or upturned to the dark countenance, on which the light did not fall.

It struck Durtal that the woes repressed in the morning hours were poured out in the twilight; the faithful did not now come for Her alone, but for themselves; each one brought a load of sorrows and opened it before Her.  What anguish of soul was poured out on the stones by these women, leaning prostrate against the railing that protected the pillar which each kissed as she rose.

And the swarthy image, carved in the early part of the sixteenth century, had listened, Her face invisible, to the same sighs, the same complaints, from succeeding generations, had heard the same cries, echoing down the ages, for ever lamenting the bitterness of life, for ever expressing the desire, all the same, for length of days!

Durtal looked at Madame Bavoil.  She was praying with closed eyes, kneeling on the stones and sitting on her heels, her arms hanging, her hands clasped.  How happy was she to be able thus to abstract herself.