“But this is madness!” he cried.  “Madness!”

“Why, what is the matter?” cried the two priests.

“I beg your pardon.  Nothing.”

“Are you in pain?”

“No, it is nothing.”

There was an awkward pause which he was determined to break.

“Did you ever take laughing gas?” said he; “the gas which sends you to sleep and is used in surgery for short operations?  No?  Well, you feel a buzzing in your brain, and just as you hear a great noise of falling waters you lose consciousness.  That is what I am feeling; only the experience is not in my brain, but in my soul, which is giddy and helpless, on the point of fainting away.”

“I should like to think,” said the Abbe Plomb, “that it is not the thought of a visit to Solesmes that has thus upset you.”

Durtal had not courage enough to own the truth; he was afraid of seeming ridiculous if he confessed to such a panic; so to avoid a direct answer he vaguely shook his head.

“And I cannot help wondering why you should hesitate, for you will be welcomed with open arms.  The Father Abbot is a man of the highest merit, and, moreover, no enemy to art.  Besides—­and this I hope will suffice to reassure you—­he is a most simple and kind-hearted monk.”

“But I have to finish my article.”

The two priests laughed.

“You have a week before you to write your article in.”

“And then, to get any benefit from a monastery, I ought not be in the state of dryness and diffusion in which I find myself vegetating,” Durtal went on with difficulty.

“The saints themselves are not free from distractions,” replied the Abbe Gevresin.  “For instance, think of the monk of whom Tauler speaks, who, on quitting his cell in the month of May, would cover his face with his hood, that he might not see the country, and so be hindered from contemplating his soul.”

“Oh, our friend, must that gentle Jesus, as the Venerable Jeanne says, be for ever the poor man pining for admittance at the door of our heart?  Come, just a little goodwill—­open yours to Him,” cried Madame Bavoil.

And Durtal, finally driven into his last intrenchments, by a nod signified acquiescence in the wish of all his friends.  But he did it with deep reluctance, for he could not rid himself of a distracting idea that this concession implied a vow on his part to God!

CHAPTER XV.

This idea, which had taken firm possession of him for a few minutes, seemed to fade away, and by the morrow there only remained a startled excitement which nothing could account for; he now shrugged his shoulders, but still, at the bottom of his soul a vague sense of dread would surge up.

Was not the very absurdity of it a proof that this notion was one of the presentiments that we sometimes feel without understanding it?  Was it not, again, for lack of a command plainly given by some inward voice, a warning, a direct and secret hint, that he should be on his guard not to think of this visit to a cloister as a mere pleasure trip?