“Is not this the prototype of the cave of Chartres and the well of the Strong Saints?

“Observe, too, on the other hand, the tendency of the thunder to fall, not on the old belfry, but on the new one.  No meteorological reason, I suppose, can account for this preference; but on carefully considering the two spires, I am struck by the delicate foliage, the slender lacework of the new spire, the elegant and coquettish grace of the whole of that side.  The other, on the contrary, has no ornament, no carved tracery; it is simply carved in scallops like scale armour; it is sober, stern, stalwart and strong.  It might really almost be thought that one is female and the other of the male sex.  And then might we not conclude that the first is symbolical of the Virgin and the second of Her Son?  In that case my inference would be akin to that offered to us by Monsieur l’Abbe:  the fires are to be ascribed to Satan, who would wreak himself on the image of Her who has the power to crush his head.”

“Pray have a slice of beef, our friend,” said Madame Bavoil, coming in with a bottle in her hands.

“No, thank you.”

“And you, Monsieur l’Abbe?”

The Abbe Plomb bowed, but declined.

“Why, you eat nothing!”

“What!  I?  I may even confess that I am rather ashamed of having eaten so heartily, after reading this morning the life of Saint Laurence of Dublin, who, by way of food, was content to dip his bread in the water clothes had been washed in.”

“Why?”

“Well, in order to be able to say with the Prophet-King that he fed on ashes—­since ashes are used for lye; that is a penitential banquet which is very unlike that we have just consumed,” he added, laughing.

“Well, my dear Madame Bavoil, that puts even you to shame,” said the Abbe Gevresin.  “You are not yet covetous of so meagre a feast; you are really quite dainty!  You must have milk or water to dip your sop in!”

“Dear me,” said Durtal, “by way of high feeding I can improve on that.  I remember reading in an old book the story of the Blessed Catherine of Cardona, who, without using her hands, cropped the grass, on her knees, among the asses.”

It had not struck Madame Bavoil that the friends were speaking in fun, and she replied quite humbly,—­

“God Almighty has never yet required me to strew my bread with ashes or to graze the field—­if He should give me the order, I should certainly obey it.—­But it does not matter.”

And she was so far from enthusiastic that they all laughed.

“Then the Cathedral as a whole,” said the Abbe Gevresin after a short silence, “dates from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, excepting, of course, the new spire and numerous details.”

“Yes.”

“And the names of the architects are unknown?”