That morning, in the dawn of a rainy autumn day, lashed by a bitter north wind, Durtal, shivering and ill at ease, left the terrace and took refuge in the more sheltered walks, going down presently into a garden-slope where the brushwood afforded some little protection from the wind; these shrubberies wandered at random down the hill, and an inextricable tangle of blackberries clung with the cat’s-claws of their long shoots to the saplings that were scattered about.

It was evident that since some immemorial time the Bishops, for lack of funds, had neglected these grounds.  Of all the old kitchen garden, overgrown by brambles, only one plot was more or less weeded, and rows of spinach and carrots alternated with the frosted balls of cabbages.

Durtal sat down on a stump that had once supported a bench, and tried to look into his own soul; but he found within, look where he might, only a spiritual Beauce; it seemed to him to mirror the cold and monotonous landscape; only it was not a mighty wind that blew through his being; but a sharp, drying little blast.  He knew that he was cross-grained and could not make his observations calmly; his conscience harassed him and insisted on vexatious argument.

“Pride!  Ah, how is it to be kept under till the day shall come when it shall be quelled?  It insinuates itself so stealthily, so noiselessly, that it has ensnared and bound me before I can suspect its presence; and my case too is somewhat peculiar, and hard to cure by the religious treatment commonly prescribed in such cases.  For in fact,” said he to himself, “my pride is not of the artless and overweening kind, elated, audacious, boldly displaying, and proclaiming itself to the world; no, mine is in a latent state, what was called vain-glory in the simplicity of the Middle Ages, an essence of pride diluted with vanity and evaporating within me in transient thoughts and unexpressed conceit.  I have not even the opportunity afforded by swaggering pride for being on my guard and compelling myself to keep silence.  Yes, that is very true; talk leads to specious boasting and invites subtle praise; one is presently aware of it, and then, with patience and determination, it is in one’s power to check and muzzle oneself.  But my vice of pride is wordless and underground; it does not come forth.  I neither see nor hear it.  It wriggles and creeps in without a sound, and clutches me without my having heard its approach!

“And the good Abbe answers:  ‘Be watchful and pray;’ well, I am more than willing, but the remedy is ineffectual, for aridity and outside influences deprive it of its efficacy!

“As for outside suggestions—­they never seem to come to me but in prayer.  It is enough that I kneel down and try to collect my thoughts, they are at once dissipated.  The mere purpose of prayer is like a stone flung into a pool; everything is stirred up and comes to the top!

“And people who have not habits of religious practice fancy that there is nothing easier than prayer.  I should like to see them try.  They could then bear witness that profane imaginings, which leave them in peace at all other times, always surge up unexpectedly, during prayer.