“I perceive that only too well, father.  On entering this new house, I found, alas! all my hopes defeated.  Dilating for a moment, my heart soon sunk within me.  Instead of this centre of life, affection, youth, of which I had dreamed.  I found, in the silent and ice-cold seminary, the same suppression of every generous emotion, the same inexorable discipline, the same system of mutual prying, the same suspicion, the same invincible obstacles to all ties of friendship.  The ardor which had warmed my soul for an instant soon died out; little by little, I fell back into the habits of a stagnant, passive, mechanical life, governed by a pitiless power with mechanical precision, just like the inanimate works of a watch.”

“But order, submission and regularity are the first foundations of our Company, my dear son.”

“Alas, father! it was death, not life, that I found thus organized.  In the midst of this destruction of every generous principle, I devoted myself to scholastic and theological studies—­gloomy studies—­a wily, menacing, and hostile science which, always awake to ideas of peril, contest, and war, is opposed to all those of peace, progress, and liberty.”

“Theology, my dear son,” said Father d’Aigrigny, sternly, “is at once a buckler and a sword; a buckler, to protect and cover the Catholic faith—­a sword, to attack and combat heresy.”

“And yet, father, Christ and His apostles knew not this subtle science:  their simple and touching words regenerated mankind, and set freedom over slavery.  Does not the divine code of the Gospel suffice to teach men to love one another?  But, alas! far from speaking to us this language, our attention was too often occupied with wars of religion, and the rivers of blood that had flowed in honor of the Lord, and for the destruction of heresy.  These terrible lessons made our life still more melancholy.  As we grew near to manhood, our relations at the seminary assumed a growing character of bitterness, jealousy and suspicion.  The habit of tale bearing against each other, applied to more serious subjects, engendered silent hate and profound resentments.  I was neither better nor worse than the others.  All of us, bowed down for years beneath the iron yoke of passive obedience, unaccustomed to reflection or free-will, humble and trembling before our superiors, had the same pale, dull, colorless disposition.  At last I took orders; once a priest, you invited me, father, to enter the Company of Jesus, or rather I found myself insensibly brought to this determination.  How, I do not know.  For a long time before, my will was not my own.  I went through all my proofs; the most terrible was decisive; for some months, I lived in the silence of my cell, practicing with resignation the strange and mechanical exercises that you ordered me.  With the exception of your reverence, nobody approached me during that long space of time; no human voice but yours sounded in my ear.  Sometimes,