The Abbe smiled.

“The best prayers,” said he, “are those of the Liturgy, those which God Himself has taught us, those alone which are expressed in language worthy of Him—­in His own language.  They are complete, and supreme; for all our desires, all our regrets, all our wailing are contained in the Psalms.  The prophet foresaw and said everything; leave him, then, to speak for you, and thus, as your interpreter before God, give you his help.

“As to the prayers you may feel moved to address to God apart from the hours devoted to the purpose, let them be short.  Imitate the Recluses of Egypt, the Fathers in the Desert, who were masters in the art of supplication.  This is what old Isaac said to Cassian:  ’Pray briefly and often, lest, if your orisons be long, the enemy will come to disturb them.  Follow these two rules, they will save you from secret upheaval.

“So, go in peace; and if any trouble should overtake you, do not hesitate to consult the Abbe Plomb.”

“Eh, our friend,” cried Madame Bavoil, laughing, “and you might also cure yourself of wandering thoughts by the method employed by the Abbess of Sainte-Aure when she chanted the Psalter:  she sat in a chair of which the back was garnished with a hundred long nails, and when she felt herself wandering she pressed her shoulder firmly against the points; there is nothing better, I can tell you, for bringing folks back to reality and recalling their wandering attention.”

“Thank you, indeed!”

“There is another thing,” she went on, not laughing now.  “You ought to postpone your departure for a day or two; for the day after to-morrow is a festival of the Virgin.  They expect pilgrims from Paris, and the shrine containing our Mother’s veil will be carried in procession through the streets.”

“Oh no!” cried Durtal, “I have no love for worship in common.  When our Lady holds these solemn assizes to gel out of the way.  I wait till She is alone before I visit her.  Hosts of people shouting canticles with eyes straight to Heaven or looking for Jesus on the ground by way of unction are too much for me.  I am all for the forlorn Queens, for the deserted churches and dark chapels.  I am of the opinion of Saint John of the Cross, who confesses that he does not love the pilgrimage of crowds because one comes back more distracted than when one started.

“No.  What it is really a grief to me to leave in quitting Chartres is that very silence, that solitude in the cathedral, those interviews with the Virgin in the gloom of the crypt and the twilight of the nave.  Ah, here alone can one feel near Her, and see Her!

“In fact,” he went on after a moment’s reflection, “one does see Her in the strictest sense of the word—­or at least, can fancy that She is there.  If there is a spot where I can call up Her face, Her attitude—­in short Her portrait—­it is at Chartres.”

“And how is that?”

“Well, Monsieur l’Abbe, we have no trustworthy information as to our Mother’s face or figure.  Her features are unknown—­intentionally, I feel sure, in order that each one may contemplate Her under the aspect that best pleases him, and incarnate Her in the ideal beauty of his dreams.