He walked away through the city, beside the Seine and over it, and took the direction of the Rue d’Enfer.  The day had the softness of early spring; but the weather was gray and humid.  Newman found himself in a part of Paris which he little knew—­a region of convents and prisons, of streets bordered by long dead walls and traversed by a few wayfarers.  At the intersection of two of these streets stood the house of the Carmelites—­a dull, plain edifice, with a high-shouldered blank wall all round it.  From without Newman could see its upper windows, its steep roof and its chimneys.  But these things revealed no symptoms of human life; the place looked dumb, deaf, inanimate.  The pale, dead, discolored wall stretched beneath it, far down the empty side street—­a vista without a human figure.  Newman stood there a long time; there were no passers; he was free to gaze his fill.  This seemed the goal of his journey; it was what he had come for.  It was a strange satisfaction, and yet it was a satisfaction; the barren stillness of the place seemed to be his own release from ineffectual longing.  It told him that the woman within was lost beyond recall, and that the days and years of the future would pile themselves above her like the huge immovable slab of a tomb.  These days and years, in this place, would always be just so gray and silent.  Suddenly, from the thought of their seeing him stand there, again the charm utterly departed.  He would never stand there again; it was gratuitous dreariness.  He turned away with a heavy heart, but with a heart lighter than the one he had brought.  Everything was over, and he too at last could rest.  He walked down through narrow, winding streets to the edge of the Seine again, and there he saw, close above him, the soft, vast towers of Notre Dame.  He crossed one of the bridges and stood a moment in the empty place before the great cathedral; then he went in beneath the grossly-imaged portals.  He wandered some distance up the nave and sat down in the splendid dimness.  He sat a long time; he heard far-away bells chiming off, at long intervals, to the rest of the world.  He was very tired; this was the best place he could be in.  He said no prayers; he had no prayers to say.  He had nothing to be thankful for, and he had nothing to ask; nothing to ask, because now he must take care of himself.  But a great cathedral offers a very various hospitality, and Newman sat in his place, because while he was there he was out of the world.  The most unpleasant thing that had ever happened to him had reached its formal conclusion, as it were; he could close the book and put it away.  He leaned his head for a long time on the chair in front of him; when he took it up he felt that he was himself again.  Somewhere in his mind, a tight knot seemed to have loosened.  He thought of the Bellegardes; he had almost forgotten them.  He remembered them as people he had meant to do something to.  He gave a groan as he remembered what he