Chapter XIII

THE Feast of the Assumption was over. Ever since dawn the Pontifical Office had been going on with all the glory of the chant and all the power and splendour of the finest vestments. The church, now empty, exhaled the soothing perfume of stale incense and of burning wax which mingled with its natural odour of the tomb; the scent symbolized the sepulchre whence the Virgin rose to take her place beside Her Son, when she lightly mounted the cloudy causeway of Heaven, shining figure attended by the throng of angels and saints who came to bid her welcome.

All day the heat had been overwhelming. Benediction had been preceded by the solemn Procession which Louis XIII. instituted in memory of the consecration of his kingdom to our Lady, and Durtal, on reaching home, sat down in the shade of the great cedar tree in his garden.

There he meditated upon the Festival which for him was a Festival of the Liberation from pain and the chief Festival of Our Blessed Lady. The day prompted him to contemplate the Madonna from a special point of view, for it brought him face to face with the dreadful problem of Pain and Sorrow. What a strange part, great and yet limited, did Sorrow play in the life of the Virgin!

To attempt to understand the reason for the existence of sorrow, of this appalling Benefactress, one must go back to man’s beginning, to Eden, where Sorrow was born the moment Adam became conscious of sin. She was the first-born of Man’s work, and, ever since, she has pursued him upon earth, and, beyond the tomb, even to the very threshold of Paradise.

She was the atoning daughter of Disobedience; though Baptism wipes out the original stain, Sorrow it is unable to check; to the water of the Sacrament she adds the water of tears; she cleanses souls, as best she can, with two substances borrowed from man’s own body, with water and blood.

Hateful, and hated by all, she penalized generation after generation; from father to son antiquity handed down hatred and fear of this torturer; Paganism, unable to understand her, has made of her an evil goddess whom prayers and gifts availed nothing to appease.

For centuries she bore the burden of humanity’s curse, and, weary of seeing her work of reparation provoking only wrath and abuse, she, too, impatiently awaited the coming of the Messiah who should clear her reputation and remove the hateful stigma that was hers.

She awaited Him as her Redeemer and also as her Betrothed, destined for her since the Fall ; and for Him, accordingly, she reserved her passion, until then kept within bounds. For, from the time since her mission began, the tortures she had dealt out were comparatively tolerable. She had to curtail her grievous caresses to suit the proportions of mankind. She did not give free play to herself when dealing with those despairing ones who repulsed and reviled her, when they but felt her hovering near.

Only on the God-Man did she lavish all that was most exquisite in her armoury. His capacity for suffering exceeded all that she had known. She crept towards Him on that awful night, when, alone, forsaken in a cave, He took upon Himself the sins of the world, and, having embraced Him, she gained a grandeur that was never hers till then. So terrible was she that at her touch He swooned. His Agony was His Betrothal to her.

She filled His cup with the sole blandishments that were hers to offer-atrocious and super-human torments; and as a faithful spouse she devoted herself to Him and never left him again till the end. Mary, and Magdalene, and the holy women,were not able to follow Him everywhere, but she accompanied him to the Pretorium, to Herod, to Pilate; she counted up the thongs of the whips, she made sure that the thorns were prickly, that the gall was bitter, that the lancet and the nails were sharp.

But when the supreme moment had come, when Mary and Magdalene and St. John stood weeping at the font of the Cross, and Christ gave up the ghost, and the Church came forth in floods of blood and water from the heart of the victim, that was the end. Christ, unmoved, escaped for ever from the embrace of Sorrow, but Sorrow was rehabilitated, redeemed, cleared for ever by His death.

As much decried as had been the Messiah, in Him she was raised. Her mission was ratified and ennobled, and, henceforth, she was comprehensible to Christians until the end of time she was to be loved by souls appealing to her to help in the expiation of sin, and loved, too, in memory of the Passion of Christ.

Sorrow had held the Son in her grip for some hours. Over the Mother her hold was longer, and in this longer possession lies the strange element.

The Virgin was the one human creature whom, logically, she had no right to touch. The Immaculate Conception should have put Mary beyond her reach, and, having never sinned during her earthly life, she should have been unassailable, and exempt from the evil onslaughts of Sorrow.

To dare to approach her, Sorrow required a special leave from God and the consent of the Mother herself, who, to be the more like unto her Son and to co-operate as far as she could in our Redemption, agreed to suffer at the foot of the cross the terrors of the final catastrophe.

But in dealing with the Mother, Sorrow at the outset had not full scope. She indeed set her mark on Mary from the moment of the Annunciation when our Lady in the Divine light perceived the Tree of Golgotha. But, after that, Sorrow had to retire into the background. She saw the Nativity from afar, but could not make her way into the cave of Bethlehem. Only at the Presentation in the Temple, at Simeon’s prophecy, did she leap from her ambush and planted herself in the Virgin’s breast. From that moment she took up her abode there, yet she was not unchallenged mistress, for another lodger, joy, also dwelt there, the presence of Jesus bringing cheerfulness to his Mother’s soul, But after the treachery of Judas Iscariot, Sorrow had her revenge. She now ruled supreme and, from the fury of her onslaught, it might have been thought that our Lady had drained the cup to the last dreg. But is was not so.

Mary’s excruciating grief at the Crucifixion had been preceded by the long-drawn anguish of the Trial; it again was followed by another period of suspense, of sorrowful longing for the day when she should rejoin Her Son in Heaven, far removed from a world that had covered them both with shame.

Thus, in the soul of the Virgin, there was, as it were, a sort of triptych. Sorrow, masterful, overwhelming, filled the centre panel of the Crucifixion, while, on either side, was the anguish of suspense, one of fear, the other of unfulfilled hope.

Yet, for the Virgin there could be no going back. She had accepted the heavy task bequeathed to her by Jesus, the task of bringing up the child born on the Cross. She took it to her care and, for twenty-four years, according to St. Epiphanius, or for twelve, as other saints affirm, as some gentle grandmother she watched over this weakling whom the world, like another Herod, was ever out to slay. She trained the little Church and taught it to be a fisher of souls.

It was she who was first pilot of that bark that began to sail forth upon the ocean of the world. When she died, she had been both Martha and Mary; she had combined here on earth the active life with the contemplative; and that is why the Gospel for the Feast of the Assumption is taken from the passage in St. Luke which tells of Christ’s visit to the house of the two sisters.

Her mission, then, was accomplished. Entrusted to the care of St. Peter, the Church was now strong enough to sail alone.

Sorrow, that during this period had not left Mary, was now at last forced to flee; just as Sorrow had been absent at the time of our Lady’s coming to bed, so she was absent in the hour of Mary’s death. The Blessed Virgin died neither from old age nor from mortal sickness; she was wafted away by the vehemence of her Love; and her face had so calm, so radiant and happy an expression that her death was called the Dormition, the Falling Asleep of the Virgin.

Yet, ere that longed-for night of eternal deliverance could be hers, how many years of tormenting desire had sin not to endure! For, woman arid mother that she was, how must she not have longed to be rid of that body, which though it had given birth to the Saviour of the world, still kept her anchored to earth, and hindered her from rejoining her Son!

And, for those who loved her, what joy to know that she had at last escaped from her prison of the flesh, had risen to a new life, been crowned and enthroned; that she was now free, far from our sordid earth, and safe in the heavenly Jerusalem, ill the regions of Eternal bliss.

"No, never," thought Durtal, "has the rather childish ecstacy of the ’Gaudeamus’ been more completely justified than in this Introit of the Mass of the Assumption, where the Church gives untrammelled vent to her joy. The Breviary, as if scarcely able to believe it, goes on, repeating the triumphal news, until it finally sums it up in antiphon of the Magnificat of the Second Vespers: ’Today Mary the Virgin ascends into heaven. Rejoice, for with Christ she reigneth eternally.’

"Ah! Lord," continued Durtal, "it is true, when I invoke the aid of thy Blessed Mother, I forget for the moment her sufferings and her joys. I regard her only as my own mother to whom I tell my thoughts and my petty interests, whom I implore to keep me and those dear to me from stumbling on the path. But when, having nothing to ask of her, I think of her — who is always so present to me that I cannot pass two hours without remembering her — it is always as anxious and sorrowful that I picture her to myself — as Our Lady of Tears. If I contemplate her from the scene of the Presentation to that on Golgotha, though she is consoled by Thy visible Presence, she still does not seem happy. But, to-day, by an effort of will, I am able to view her in a different light. Despite all her love of self-sacrifice, she seems so contented to be at last near Thee, freed for ever from all her grief, that, if I could only get away from my own sorrows, 1 should be really joyous. Yes, I felt quite light-hearted as I sang the ’Gaudeamus’ and listened to the Office which I followed as well as I could. My mind is usually given to wandering, but on this feast my thoughts were with Thee alone and with Her. But now that the lights are out and the voices silent, now that all is plunged once more in gloom, sorrow overwhelms me like a flood; I am lost in a sea of trouble.

"The fact is that everything is going to the dogs. How can I help being interested in events that may once more change the tenor of my life? And, Dear Lord, if Thou didst only know how sick and tired I am, and, having at long last found a seat, how I long to remain seated!"

In alarm he thought on the forthcoming exodus from Val-des-Saints. The Abbot had rented a château for his monks near Moerbeke, in Waes, Belgium, and had decided not to wait until October 2, the latest date allowed by law for their departure. As soon as he got back to the monastery he at once despatched the Father Cellarer and the Father Guest-master to Moerbeke to get the place ready. As soon as they came back, a first contingent of monks was to leave for Belgium, to be followed gradually by the rest of the community. The removal was thus only a question of days.

The two vacant choir stalls reminded Durtal how near was the day of departure; nor could he help smiling a sad smile, when, before High Mass, monks and novices still went on chanting the prayers for preservation from exile. But these they now chanted rather listlessly, for alas, the prayers had been unheard.

"They will soon be able to sing, instead of the ’Levavi oculos,’ the other Psalm, ’By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept,’ " he thought, for he felt sure that their stay abroad would be a long one and that home-sickness and want of money would be the ruin of many communities.

Then, again, M. Lampre seemed anxious, and was now far less sure that the Abbot would leave several Fathers behind at Val-des-Saints to continue the Office. This made Durtal once more ask himself whether, after all, he, too, would not have to pack up and go.

As for Mlle. de Garambois, she was in tears, while Madame Bavoil took the gloomiest view of everything. She foresaw great disasters; every day she carefully perused the papers, which were already reporting the beginning of the exodus.

And, resignedly closing her eyes, she would sigh: "On the Cross Christ drained the cup of bitterness; now it is our turn to drain it, too. Good God, I wonder what this vile Government will do to us next!"

"Whether I go away with the monks, or stop here," murmured Durtal, "it doesn’t make much difference; I feel utterly miserable." As he was feeling pins and needles in his legs, he got up from his seat and went for a stroll. "To leave Val-des-Saints just when the garden is getting so shady and charming, what bad luck "he thought, as he looked round him. The shrubs he had planted had grown together into a tangled mass, with stout twigs brimful of sap. Never had the flowers seemed more full of life or shown such beauty. The sunflowers, round their great black monastic tonsures, wore a mane of gold; roses and snapdragons in their exuberance overran the walks; the elder-tree already displayed its black fruit, the bryony its scarlet one, the mountain-ash its vermilion one and time medlar its fruit of burnt sienna. The brilliant nasturtiums climbed the trees; in the coppice the dyer’s rocket held up capsules that looked like green candles one little shrub, the calycanthus, which, the year before, seemed dead, had now taken on a new lease of life, and surprised one by reason of the variety of its perfumes. Its stern smelt of varnish and pepper; its blossom, like a big upturned spider with brick-red belly and lemoncoloured legs, smelt like camphor; and its brownish fruit had a smell of apples mixed with the fusty odour of an old cask.

"My poor old calycanthus," said Durtal, as he smilingly sniffed it. "I fear that we shan’t live together very much longer, for I feel I have not the courage to vegetate here with no Office and no monks. You are not what might be called attractive, and Madame Bavoil loathes you, for she says you are not only useless, but smelly. I have always stuck up for you, but the next tenant will be less friendly and you run the risk of being dug up one fine morning and turned into firewood; thus you, too, will fall a victim of the law.

"Oh! there’s Dom Felletin," he said, and walked to meet the Father. "What’s the news?"

"There’s none."

"Is the Abbot going to leave a few monks here? I ask the question because all this uncertainty is getting on my nerves."

"I don’t know in the least and you may be sure that, so far, the Abbot himself knows nothing either. To be quite frank, the majority of the Chapter is against the scheme, but very likely it will have to be adopted, all the same. It seems that the château that has been rented in Belgium is not big enough to house all the monks; it will have to be enlarged; in the meantime, very likely a small colony will stay on here for another few months. At any rate, so as not to interrupt the Liturgical service, two or three of us are going to remain at Val-des-Saints until the monks at Moerbeke have got into the swing."

"And then?"

"Then the little rearguard will join the main body of the troops."

I"n this case, I suppose, there is nothing for me to do but to clear out?"

"It is no good worrying yourself beforehand; if, as I think, we shall have to build additional accommodation in Belgium, you will have plenty of time to think; we shall have to get plans drawn up, collect funds, and start and finish the new buildings; perhaps, by then, we may be back again in France; the General Election is not far off, and that may alter things."

Durtal shook his head.

They walked on together for a few moments without speaking.

"What is the feast to-morrow?" asked Durtal at last, to break the silence.

"St. Hyacinth, a confessor, not a bishop; Double; Mass, ’Os justi’; and white ribbons for Mlle. de Garambois," added Dom Felletin with a chuckle.

"Now that you are here, 1 should be very thankful if you would give me some explanations on matters that puzzle me. To forget my worries I have been dipping into the Roman Breviary and the Monastic one, and, I confess, I am somewhat bewildered. There are times when I seem to be walking in large, empty rooms where all the shutters are closed. Their ceilings may be lofty, but they are not always easy to see."

"Well, what don’t you see? What is your difficulty?"

"Why, the lack of order and rule that I am always running up against. For instance, will you explain why this St. Hyacinth, whose feast we celebrate to-morrow, should have the Mass ’Os justi’ allotted to him, rather than the Mass ’Justus ut palma,’ which is also set down as suitable for saints of his status? The same question might be asked about the Confessor-bishops, and the martyrs, for whom the Missal also gives duplicate Masses. Why is one form selected in preference to the other; what exactly is the motive which determines such a choice?"

"Generally speaking, there is no motive at all; these alternative Masses merely serve to vary the service and to avoid having always to recite the same words."

"So that these Masses are assigned just anyhow?"

"If you like."

"Another question: Take the Roman Breviary, and keep to that. Of course, you quite understand I am only discussing it from the point of view of History, Literature and Art. Now, see how St. Bernard, for instance, St. .flenedjct, St. Clara, St. Teresa, and St. Norbert, who were founders of great Orders, have nevertheless no special Masses; the first three have not even a proper prayer peculiar to them; but others, on the contrary, who established comparatively insignificant institutions, like St. Francis Carracciolo, one of the creators of the Minor Clerks Regular, St. Joseph Emilianus, founder of the Somaschi, St. Joseph Calasanctius, of the Regular Clerks of the Mother of God, to name only three, have each of them a proper Mass.

"Others belong to neither category; though they have no special Mass, they have a Collect, Secret and Post-communion proper to them; for instance, St. Angela Merici, St. Françoise de Cliantal and St. Bruno. Why such distinctions, which there seems nothing to justify?"

"All that depends upon the epoch and the time when these Saints were canonised. The Liturgy is an alluvial soil to which each century has added a deposit, which changes with the spirit of the time. There were periods when Proper Offices were unusual, others when they were numerous. No hard and fast rule exists.

"And then you must remember this: it does not follow that the founders of Orders whom you just mentioned — and you forgot St. Francis of Assisi and St. Dominic, who both have new Masses, and also St. Augustine, who, besides a Proper Collect, Secret and Post-communion, has, after the Alleluia, a versicle different from that of other Doctors — it does not follow that they have no special Office, simply because such an Office is not found in the Roman Breviary. Nearly all of them have got an Office of their own in the Missal or Breviary of their Congregation; for instance, St. Benedict, whom the Roman Breviary lodges with the other Abbot, has a mansion of his own in the Benedictine Office-Book.

"In questions of this sort, it is not enough to look at only one Breviary; all the Breviaries should be studied in order to form a general opinion; when all the monastic Breviaries, and all the Propers of the different dioceses have been examined, all works out right. The Saint who has no place in one is found in another; the Liturgy is a never-ending feast to which an ever-increasing number of Saints resort, and Mother Church, in her hospitality, finds a lodging for each where she can."

"Good; but to hark back to those Masses of saints who were monks or friars; how is it that two Franciscans, St. John Capistran and St. Joseph Cupertino, have each of them an entire Mass of their own, while their brother in St. Francis, St. Bernarcline of Siena — I presume their equal in heaven — has only a Gospel and a Collect proper to him? No, Father, you may say what you like, but your building is anything but orderly. Will you explain whya Saint like Pope Gregory VII. should live in a furnished apartment of the Common, while the young Louis de Gonzagua is landlord of his own house? Or would you tell me why the Gaudeamus Introit used for our Lady of Mount Carmel, for St. Anne, for the Feast of the Rosary, the Assumption, and All Saints, is also granted to St. Agatha, to St. Thomas of Canterbury and to St. Josephat? Why should these three have this honour, and not others, too? Such a distinction is not in keeping with their status, for they are merely Doubles. It is the General’s cocked hat and ostrich-plumes worn above the simple uniform of a second-lieutenant."

Dom Felletin laughed. "My answer will always be the same: it is a matter partly of opportunity, partly of time; and, not to omit anything, I may add that much depends on the influence of the Congregation or diocese to which the candidate belonged. Take, for instance, two saints who follow each other in the Calendar and whose work was identical: St. Vincent de Paul, founder of the Lazarists and Sisters of Charity and St. Jerome milian, founder of the Somaschi. St. Emilian, who lived a century earlier than St. Vincent, has a special Mass, but not so St. Vincent, whose Mass is a Common one, save that, instead of the Gospel of the Common, there is read that of St. Mark’s day. Now, you will ask me once more, why should one have so much and the other so little, as both are Doubles? Simply, because the wind was probably blowing in a different direction when one or the other was canonized. Really, it is hardly fair to try and find flaws in such a grand edifice as that of the Liturgy; its nave and aisles are magnificent, but some of its chapels, built later, are second-rate. There is pure gold, but also dross; some of the Masses of the Proper of Saints are masterpieces, from the point of view of Art; others are more commonplace. Take, for instance, that of St. John Damascene. This Doctor, as a result of the calumnies of which he was a victim, had his hand chopped off, but was healed by the Blessed Virgin. Now, notice how his whole Mass Introit, Epistle, Gradual, Gospel, Offertory and Communion, perpetually allude to this miracle. It is a Mass with a ’Leitmotif,’ and very cleverly composed. In the same way take the Mass of St. Gregory, the Wonder Worker; it is not a Proper Mass, for he shares it with other ConfessorBishops, but in his case it is enriched with a special Gospel which alludes to the Faith that removes mountains. Now, according tohis biographers, St. Gregory had actually, by his prayers, shifted a mountain which stood on a spot where he wanted to build a church. From that you may perceive how apt and skilful was the choice of the Gospel.

"As a contrast, take the Mass of St. Anthony, the Hermit. It is the usual Mass for Abbots, with another Gospel which deserves to be looked into.

"The Breviary tells its that the Saint owed his call to hearing the Evangelical words, ’If thou wilt be perfect, go, sell that thou hast and give to the poor.’ Hence it would have been only fitting, that, instead of the ordinary Gospel of Abbots, he should have been allotted this Gospel, but, instead of this, he is simply given the Gospel from the Common of Confessors, not Pontiffs, which has no bearing on his case at all.

"But against one Office of more or less faulty composition you can pit a hundred that are simply admirable; the three specimens I just gave you, show you how some saints, by reason of their miracles, or certain outstanding events in their lives which it is profitable to keep in mind, have a better right to a special Mass than other saints, whose life was more humdrum and dull.

"Moreover, I repeat, the Breviary and Missal are stratified like the earth’s crust, they are formed of layers more or less ancient and more or less thick, which accounts for the incongruities that we find. Could you expect a Mass, drawn up to-day in honour of a newly canonized saint, to be written in the same language and conceived in the same way, as certain parts of the Mass for the Dead; as for instance, its Offertory, which dates from the first era of the Liturgy, from its Primary Formation, to use the term of the geologists?

"Hence you must allow for these strata. They exist not only in the Liturgy, but likewise in the Plain-song, where often new patches have been deftly woven into and blended with what is very old, so that it is often necessary to examine the reverse side of the tapestry, to see what exactly is new and what old. What does it really matter, provided the work is beautiful, and glorifies God!

"The real difficulty in the matter of the Liturgy does not lie here; what we have been chatting about so far is only the fringe of the question. Your strictures, for which, perhaps, something might be said, are as nothing in comparison to those which engross the minds of us whose business it is to say or sing the Office; they are far more serious, and have recently been summarized in a pamphlet by Mgr. Isoard, Bishop of Annecy.

"This is how the matter stands: On the one hand, the roll of saints grows ever longer, and, as the new saints are almost all classed as Doubles, when introduced into the Calendar, they oust the earlier Saints, some of them great Saints, but who, finding their way into the Calendar in olden days, figure only as semi-Doubles or Simples; for instance, St. George, St. Margaret, St. Edward, St. Elizabeth of Portugal, St. Casimir, St, Henry, St. Alexis, SS. Cosmas and Damian, St. Marcellus, Pope, and how many others besides!

"These have mostly no Mass nor Vespers, and they must be content with a mere commemoration in the Office of some more fortunate modern upstart.

"In a word, the new Saints drive out the old. St. Christopher and St. Barbe, whom our French forbears held in such high veneration, are now dispossessed of their ancient inheritance, and their only remaining refuge is in the churches of which they are the patron saints. They have been hidden away in the Propers of the dioceses and there they must stop.

On the other hand, this army of Saints, all raised to the dignity of Doubles, also displaces the Ferial services, and so it comes about that the splendid Offices of the Seasons have to give way to ordinary Masses from the Common. Of the Sunday Mass, too often only a Commemoration and the Gospel are read, and the same at Vespers. The same Psalms are repeated over and over again, so that one tires of listening to the everlasting Anthems of the "Ecce sacerdos magnus" for Bishops and the "Domine quinque talenta" of the Confessors. As Mgr. Isoard justly observes, of the hundred and fifty Psalms, of which the Psalter is composed, only about thirty are usually said."

"There are too many saints!" exclaimed Durtal, laughing.

"Alas! there will never be enough of them! But what is needed is a revision of their rank so as to re-adjust the balance between the different categories of saints and also between these and the Ferials. How far removed are we from the Calendar of earlier days! Only as far back as the time of CharIemagne March had but two Festival Days, and April, four. Other months, like January and August, had eleven. What a host of new ones have since come into being!"

By the way, Father, when you come to think of it, is it not rather droll to see how the saints are treated as if they were a regiment with all the hierarchy of military grades?

"In this army in which we are mere privates and troopers, there are officers of all ranks; field-marshals, generals, colonels, and captains, down to the poor sub-lieutenant to whom just a Simple is allotted.

"Judging by what I see here, the insignia of rank consist in the number of lighted candles varying from two to six: Superior officers have, in addition, a deacon, subdeacon, a master of ceremonies and four cantors in the middle of the choir, all in copes, or two in copes, or else all four in cowls. The exact order of precedence is scrupulously observed, and carefully weighed in the scales of dignity. Just fancy having two masters of ceremonies! But it is true St. Benedict is the only saint to be treated with such elaborate pomp.

"As for the smaller Offices, two candles are thought enough, and at Capitular Mass, only one server accompanies the priest. If by any chance the inferior officers get a bit of Vespers, they are still made to feel their unimportance; the Anthem is not doubled for them and even the very tone of the prayers is changed. They get just as much as they are entitled to; anything more is forbidden by the Regulations!

"The unfortunate part of it is, as you just remarked, that the gold stripes should be so strangely distributed, for it is not the oldest, most revered saints who rank highest."

"The idea of reforming the Breviary is anything but new," said Dom Felletin. "For centuries people have been striving in this direction. Read Dom Guéranger’s Institutions Liturgiques and Abbé Batiffol’s History of the Roman Breviary, and you will see that, from time immemorial Rome has had to listen to the complaints of the clergy on this matter.

"An anonymous work, like plain-song, begotten of the genius and the piety of the ages, the Roman Breviary had reached its state of perfection at the end of the eighth century, and preserved its form practically intact until the end of the twelfth century. Then, in the thirteenth century, it was amended for the use of Friars Minor, by Father Aimon, their General, and, thanks to his influence, was adopted throughout all the dioceses and in the end replaced the original text. Now, the modifications made by the Franciscans were simply deplorable. They crammed the Office with interpolations and apocryphal stories and were responsible for the beginning of the system of sacrificing the Proper of the Season to the Proper of Saints. Such as it was, this Office held the field until the sixteenth century. Pope Clement VII. then decided to have it remodelled and committed the work to a Spanish Cardinal, also a Franciscan. In due course His Spanish Eminence hatched out a new work, the so-called Quignonez Breviary, a hybrid compilation, without head or tail, and quite outside any tradition. This had to be endured, though not for long, for, twenty-two years after its publication, a rescript of Pope Paul IV. forbade it to be reprinted.

"This Pope put before the Council of Trent a new scheme for the Canonical Office, but he died, and it fell to his successor, Pius V., to push it. It was his intention to restore the ancient Orb, pruned of all that was superfluous; he also laid it down as a rule that new Saint-days should not be too readily included, for fear of leaving no room for Saints in ages to come; when the work was finished he made it obligatory for all, decreed that it should never be changed, and, with a stroke of the pen, suppressed all Breviaries that were less than two hundred years old.

"His own was not perfect, but far superior to those which it replaced. At least it restored the Antiphonary and Responsorale of the time of Charlemagne, and put the Office of the Lesson before the Office of Saints.

"Thirty years afterwards, in spite of the prohibition of Pius V., Clement VIII., his immediate successor, deeming it incorrect and incomplete, modified and corrected the Breviary in his turn, again giving the first place of the Proper of Saints to the detriment of time Ferials, so that what was gained wider Pius V. was all lost under Clement.

"Then, again, in the eighteenth century, the Breviary was altered by Urban VIII. This Pope, being something of a Latin poet, added two hymns of his own, those of St. Martina and St. Elizabeth of Portugal. The addition of two rococo hymns mattered little, but, what was much worse, he gave orders for the olden hymns to be touched up, and it is in this new form that they are still sung today. There the story of the Roman Breviary ends.

"As for the Gallican Liturgy, it is shown by its framework to be derived in part from the Churches of the East. In its beginning, indeed, it was a rather happy mixture of the rites of the Levant and of Rome. It was dismantled in the reigns of Pepin and Charlemagne, the latter, at the request of Pope St. Adrian, introducing into Gaul the Roman Liturgy.

"During the Middle Ages, the Gallican Liturgy was enriched by some admirable hymns and delightful responses; it also created a number of symbolical Proses and, on the Italian woof, embroidered the fairest flowers.

"When the Bull of Pius V. was issued, as the Gallican Liturgy had already nearly eight centuries behind it, the French were free not to accept the reformed Roman Breviary. But, out of deference, they did accept it. The Bishops destroyed the work of the native artists, burned, so to speak, their Primitives, or, at any rate, saved only a few, which they locked up in the Proper of their Diocese. The Metropolitan Church of Lyons was the only one that preserved its heritage intact, and there, in the old Basilica of St. John, we are still able to hear archaic prayers and venerable Proses.

"Judged from the archaeological or artistic standpoint, the suppression of these old rites and prayers was a barbarous act, the purest Vandalism. The Office thereby lost all originality."

"Yes," broke in Durtal; "as if a steam-roller had crushed and flattened all the roads of the Liturgy in France."

"Well," continued Dom Felletin, "the structure, patched-up and in pieces as it was, lasted in France till the reign of Louis XIV. Then Galhcan and Jansenist ideas took the field and it was decided to demolish the oft-repaired building.

"The Roman Breviary was broken up and reconstructed on a new basis. To those years belong the works of Harlay, Noailles and Vintimille. These prelates transmogrified the whole Psalter. They admitted only anthems and responses taken from Holy Writ; they cut out the legends of the Saints, took away from the cultus of the Blessed Virgin, cancelled a series of feasts, and for the old hymns substituted verses by Coffin and Santeuil. The heresies of Jansenists were dressed up in the Latin of Paganism. The Paris Breviary became a kind of Protestant Handbook which the Paris Jansenists hawked about the provinces.

"Very soon in the Dioceses there was absolute pandemonium. Each invented an Office-book for its own use, and everything was winked at. The will of the Ordinary was the highest law. And so things went on till Dom Guéranger managed to bring about unity of worship by persuading France to adopt the books of the Church of Rome.

"At the present time — save for those Religious Orders whose Office-books, like ours, were more than two hundred years old when the Bull of Pius V. appeared — all Christendom uses the Roman Breviary as arranged, and spoilt, by Urban VIII.

"It is very far from perfect, but such as it is, in spite of the inconsistencies of which you complain, in spite, too, of the utter absence of rule governing its selection of Homilies and Lessons, it nevertheless forms an ample and a splendid whole.

"The Roman Missal and Breviary contains pieces of supreme beauty; think of the Lenten and Advent, the Ember Day and Palm Sunday Masses; think of the Holy Week Services and of the Mass for the Dead; think of the Anthems, Responses and Hymns for Advent, for Lent, for Passion-tide, for Easter, for Pentecost, for All Hallows, for Christmas and for the Epiphany; think of Matins, Lauds arid the marvellous Office of Compline, and you must acknowledge that in no literature of the world are they to be matched."

"I quite agree, Father."

"Then, if I may be allowed to take up the cudgel in defence of the poor Saints who so often trespass on the Proper of the Season; at least, from a Liturgical point of view they have their use; for in the Church’s year the life of Christ is gone through in less than six months, in winter and spring. From Whitsun onwards, that is, for the whole of summer and autumn, some padding is needed, and there our good Saints come in useful and form a glorious group round the great feasts, such as the Assumption, All Saints and the Dedication of all the churches. With regard to the Dedication, you should read, in the Pontifical, the Liturgy for the Consecration of a Church; you will there find the art of symbolism at its very best."

"1 have read it and also time Pontifical of Virgins; I quite agree with you; they are sublime; but it is just because I love the Liturgy that I should like to see it without spot or blemish. Nor is such a plan so utterly hopeless, for in the forgotten caskets of the Liturgy there is untold treasure. All we need do is to open them and replace the shams by real jewels."

"Ah, that’s what you say! But the experiment has been tried again and again and shows you to be in the wrong. How often have our books been amended, and yet they are as imperfect as ever."

"Yes, because the people who revised them, though no doubt they were scholars, were not artists as well."

"Well, I hope that you will be more indulgent to our own Benedictine Missal and Breviary. True, they are not above criticism, but you will admit that, in their main lines, they are superb. Less overloaded with casual feasts, which oust the Sunday and Ferial Offices — without such Festivals as those of the Holy Family, of the Prayer in the Garden, of the Crown of Thorns, of the Holy Winding Sheet, of the Five Wounds, of the Lance and the Nails — our books have kept a delightful flavour of antiquity. Our Office-books were the first to make use of hymns; it was St. Benedict who first introduced hymns, proses and sequences into the body of the Services. His sons made of the Christian Prayer-book a floral garland into which enters all that is best in the poetic efforts of St. Ambrose, Prudentius, Sedulius, Fortunatus, Paul the Deacon and others. At any rate, there is no old-new stuff there, no patched-up goods as in the Roman..."

"Come, come," said Durtal, laughing," you’re cheating, Father. Our Monastic Hymnal is not exempt from poems written in pretentious and very bad Latin; needless to say, these hymns do not date from so very far back. Then, again, like the Roman Breviary, we go on repeating the ceaseless ’Iste Confessor,’ which the Ordo’s often adorn with the cryptic letters m.t.v. to show that the third line of the first verse is to be changed, because it is not the year-day of the Saints’ decease. Now this anonymous hymn which, I think, was written in honour of St. Martin, is not in the least relevant to the majority of the Saints on whose feasts it is used. It alludes to the miracles wrought at St. Martin’s tomb and to the cures effected by him. But many of the holy Pontiffs and non-Pontiffs for whom this hymn is now used, never, so far as I know, worked any miracles after their death. Hence, I say again, why not extract from the Church’s repertory some other hymn which would replace with advantage the Isle Confessor? No lengthy research would be necessary; Dom Guéranger’s Liturgical Year or Canon Ulysse Chevalier’s study on the liturgical poetry of the Middle Ages would furnish all that is wanted."

"Come, now, you must confess that our hymns, when shorn of Urban VIII.’s embellishments, are authentic, and, though they may lack variety, they do credit to the soil where they grew, and to the age which gave them birth."

"Yes; I went to the trouble of comparing the two texts, the true and the spurious, in that little book of Abbé Albin which you kindly lent me, La poésie du Bréviaire. Set beside Abbé Pimont’s two rather bulky volumes, this little book is a marvel of conciseness, with its comparative texts, its variants, its French translations, old and modern, and its notes on versification, and on history. What I should like to know is, why it was not a Benedictine who wrote the work?"

"Ah, now you are changing your point of attack!" exclaimed Father Felletin, laughing. "You are letting go of the Office in order to fall on the monks!"

"On this score, Father, I shall never give you any peace. It is because I love the Benedictines that it makes me so furious to see how they take no interest in a work that is really theirs. What about the Menology of your Order? There is no other Order that hasn’t got its own. The Franciscans, Dominicans, Carnnhites, and so forth, have all written works in which the lives of their Saints are briefly narrated. But you have produced nothing! And, by the-bye, how incomplete your Breviary is in some respects! It mentions only a few of your Saints; what about Saints like Austrebertha, Walburga or Wereburga — where are they?"

"If they were in our Proper, then you would blame us for neglecting the Office of the Season," retorted Dom Felletin. "It is just because our Proper of the Saints is not a long one that we can still recite the Votive Office of the Blessed Virgin and of St. Benedict. I take it you do not object to that?

"No, for they have the old plain-song, which is exquisite and so simple."

"As for the Menology," continued Père Felletin, "Dom Onésime Menault, who died at Silos, once began a series of Benedictine biographies. Collectively, the booklets would probably have made a sort of Menology in one or two volumes. Only two Lives were published, that of St. Benedict of Aviane and that of St. Guilhem of Gellone. The publisher found there was no sale for them and refused to run risks.

"There is no doubt, however, that the Menology you speak of would be most useful, but it is too late to saddle ourselves with such a task. Now, when we are on the point of leaving the country, is not the moment to take up lengthy works of this sort."

They both became silent. They had returned to the point from which their long talk had started, to the subject of their exile. All conversation seemed to lead back to that.

"Bah!" said Durtal. "Who knows? In your new home you may get some studious novices with a leaning to research-work. The more evil the times, the more numerous are monastic vocations."

Dom Felletin shook his head.

"No doubt," he said, "but what worries me is this heaping together of refugee monasteries in the same country. With the exception of Solesmes, which is going to the Isle of Wight, and the Abbey of Marseilles which is going to Italy, all the other Abbeys are removing to Belgium, and Belgium is a small country. St. Wandrille, St. Maur de Glanfeuil and the Priory of St. Anne de Kergonan have taken houses, so I hear, in the Province of Namur there all three will be close together. The Abbey de Ligugé is going to settle a little further north in the Province of Limburg; the Priory of Wisques moves to the province of Hainaut, and ours to East Flanders.

"In so confined a space we shall stifle our own selves; but what is worse is that, above us, there will stand a fine imposing Belgian Abbey, the Abbey of Maredsous. It is both famous and prosperous, and is ruled by the Abbot-Primate of the Order. Now, there is no getting away from the fact that we shall be overwhelmed by the Abbey, for — even if one takes in consideration that a Frenchman prefers to live among Frenchmen rather than among Belgians — it is clear that postulants will want to pass their period of probation in a real Abbey, rather than in the ramshackle sort of abode in which we shall have to stow ourselves. There’s no disguising the matter: the right atmosphere and the right surroundings are indispensable to encourage a religious vocation. Where there is no cloister, no real church, no separate novitiate, no real cells, there the soul fails to grow. Do you know, they are actually thinking of fitting up some sort of chapel for us in a drawing-room! That means the end of solemn ceremonies, for the framework will be gone, so that the Liturgy, which is the very reason for our existence, goes to the wall. If our exile is to be a lasting one, God grant we may not crumble away to nothingness!"

Durtal’s courage failed him to offer a protest, for he himself felt that no good would come of the stay of his Benedictines abroad.

Silence became painful. It was a relief when Madame Bavoil came into the garden to remind them that it was past dinner-time.

Chapter XIV

"I SAY, can you tell me what all this means?" exclaimed Madame Bavoil, as she brandished some newspapers above Durtal’s head, who was seated before his after-lunch cup of coffee. "Upon my word, I really don’t know if I am mad, or they All the Carmelite nuns have refused to apply to the Government for authorization and have bolted It seems to have been an absolute stampede. Except for those at Dijon and a few other towns, the whole lot packed up their trunks and made off. Look, here’s the paper. What does it mean? Can you understand it?"

"I can’t understand it any more than you can," replied Durtal, as he handed back the paper. "The Carmelites received a letter from Cardinal Gotti, their Superior at Rome, instructing them to go, and now Father Grégoire, the Definitor of the Order in France, sends a statement for publication in the Press that this letter of the Cardinal is a forgery. What is one to believe?"

"Forgery or not, that’s not the question. The Carmelite convents are houses of expiation and penance; they ought to welcome persecution, not run away from it. Was it not the Carmelites of Compiègne who were sent to the scaffold by the Revolutionary Tribunal of Paris? Were they afraid? Did they decamp?"

"How pugnacious you are, Madame Bavoil! What has come over you?"

Without answering, Madame Bavoil took a chair, and went on"

"I get quite angry when I read a thing like that. Ah! Jeanne de Matel was right when she said that we win God by losing ourselves. If these nuns had lost themselves in Him, they would just calmly sit tight until they were kicked out. But they do nothing of the sort, they take to their heels; and your Benedictines do the same; but the Carthusians, it seems, and the Dominicans, the Franciscans and even the Benedictines of Pierre-qui-Vire, have asked for authorization. Why these differences?"

"I am sure I don’t know. With certain reservations, the Pope allows the Congregations to conform to the Law; hence those who submit cannot be in the wrong, but, I imagine, those who refuse to obey such iniquitous edicts are also in the right."

"That’s what they call a Norman answer. If Rome consents, why do some Orders want to show themselves more Popish than the Pope himself?"

"You had better ask them. But as, no doubt, you want my candid opinion, here it is: I think that, except for the charitable institutions which the Government cannot replace, the petitions of the Religious Houses will be rejected en bloc by the Chambers; hence I don’t see that there is much use in the monks’ fruitless and humiliating appeals."

"But, bless me, a monk is made to be humbled. If he doesn’t accept affronts meekly and gladly, pray tell me in what way he is better than other men? Ah! I really must get this off my chest! The religious spirit nowadays has slackened. The monasteries are in a state of decay. You told me once that catastrophes, such as the burning of the Charity Bazaar, happened because that there were not enough houses of reparation and penance, because the balance of good and evil differed too much one way, because the lightning-conductors were too few."

"Quite so."

"Well, are you quite sure that the existing lightning-conductors are not rusty or otherwise out of order? Are you sure that, if God has punished us, it was because of the quantity being insufficient? Don’t you think, rather, that it was chiefly because of the quality? I am much afraid that the monasteries themselves are to blame."

"That I do not know."

"If what I think is true, all that we can now expect is that God will call upon us to give Him a helping hand to right matters; in such cases, you know how He acts; He overwhelms us with trials and afflictions. The Catholics who now calmly look on while their few defenders depart into exile will have to endure ills and misfortunes of every sort; whether they like it or not, they will suffer, for now there will be nothing to counterbalance the riff-raff."

"But, really, this flight of the Carmelites is a very sad thing. Even supposing such strict Orders as theirs stand as much in need of reform as the others, they were nevertheless still useful as lightning-conductors. But it is not fair to blame only the Religious for our apathy; we should blame the Bishops, the clergy, the faithful — in a word, all the Catholics.

"The Bishops are not worth talking about; except the old ones, who got their promotion in better times, nearly all have been tamed and have had their claws trimmed by the Ministry of Public Worship. As for the clergy, it either leans towards rationalism, or else shows shocking ignorance and listlessness. The truth is that the clergy is the product of methods that are utterly out of date. Seminary Education ought to be abolished. Men are stifled in those class-rooms where not a window has been opened since the death of Monsieur Olier. The teaching is obsolete, and the study thrown away. But who will have the courage to break the window-panes and let in a little fresh air?

"The faithful, too, have helped to make Catholicism what it is — something soft, emasculated, hybrid; and a sort of religious exchange and mart, where graces are bought by slipping petitions and pennies into boxes set before statues of Saints.

"But truth to tell, the root of the trouble goes further back. For many years, now, religion in France has been a mixture of two things, first of tincture of Jansenism, of which we have never got rid, and, secondly, of the sweetstuff-antidote which the Jesuits invented in the hope of curing us. Alas! the remedy failed; in fact, it aggravated the malady. Foolish prudery, the fear of our own shadow, hatred of Art, inability to understand anything, intolerance of the ideas of others — these things we owe to the disciples of Jansenius, to the Appellants. A passion for petty devotions, prayer without the Liturgy, the suppression of the Office — replaced by gorgeous Benedictions — lack of strong food and a milk diet for souls-these things are what we got from the Fathers of the Society of Jesus. Within our souls the ideas of these two sworn foes have become fused, and it is this strange blend of sectarian intolerance and flaccid, effeminate pietism which helps on the process of our decay.

"Of course, now that they are being treated as pariahs, I am sorry for the Jesuits; they are good, saintly folk, and, as spiritual directors and scholars — between ourselves — they are far ahead of the other Orders. Yet, what has been the result of their teaching? Who are their fledglings? People like Trouillot or Monis, or else colourless young men who would never run the risk of a box-on-the-ear in defence of their masters, or of the Church.

"Experience is there to teach us. No man of surpassing ability has ever emerged from their forcing-houses. Their schools will now be closed like those of other Congregations which were not a whit more successful than the Jesuits. After all, it doesn’t matter much and we shall not be the losers."

"It is not their fault," hazarded Madame Bavoil. "You can’t cut a good coat out of bad cloth."

"Of course not; but, putting this aspect of the matter aside, don’t you think that, in the main, the claims we are now making sound rather hypocritical? Today we ask for freedom, yet we never granted it to others. If tomorrow the wind changed, and some vegetable grown in a Catholic seminary were to take the place of Waldeck-Rousseau, we should be more intolerant than he, so as to make him seem almost sympathetic. We hunted and persecuted everybody, while we had the least bit of authority, and, now, we are paying for it.

"Take note also, that the Jacobins who harass us are not the result of sonic spontaneous generation. They were engendered by the weakness of our faith, by our anaemic prayers, our feeble religious instincts, our selfish tastes. Yes, indeed, the Catholics have richly deserved all they are getting! Every morning and every night when we kneel in prayer, it would befit us to acknowledge this before God and before men!"

"How shall we ever get out of this mess?"

"That I don’t know, but I am certain that from this evil our Lord will cause good to come. If He allows His Church to suffer persecution it is in order that she may thus be prepared for reforms that are needed.

"The passing-bell of the Orders is ringing; the cloisters are in their agony; but He will replace them by something else. The Monastic idea cannot perish any more than the Church herself; but it can be modified. Either it will create new institutes more in accordance with modern conditions or it will graft new branches on the old trees. No doubt, we shall see a wholesale development of affiliation-schemes and of Third Orders, of which the members, being laymen, will escape the Law. I have no fears on that score; the Blessed Virgin will know how to provide in her good time.

"But now I must bid you good-evening, for I am off to the Abbey to say good-bye to Father de Fonneuve who leaves tonight for Belgium, and to be present after Vespers at the last taking of the habit."

"Who is taking the habit?"

"A novice who was a seminarist, Brother Cholet."

"Do you know him?"

"No, I only know that he hails from Poitiers, which is hardly a recommendation, for the natives of that province have a bad reputation. Anyway, let us hope he will prove an exception to the rule."

When Durtal entered the cloister, his ears were assailed by the noise of hammering; it came from every landing and window. Packing-cases were being nailed down everywhere. The guest-room into which he went was crammed from floor to ceiling with deal tables, legs upward, school-desks, battered footstools and rush-bottom chairs. It was pitiable to see all this wretched furniture at which the poorest working man would have turned up his nose.

In another room he saw a great pile made up of Prussian stoves, rusty coal-scuttles, bundles of fire-irons, stovepipes, bits of sheet-iron, commodes for the use of the sick, wash-basins, pots and jugs chipped or without handles.

"Why on earth are you taking all this rubbish with you? It surely isn’t worth the straw in which it is packed." This, he asked of Father Ramondoux, the precentor, who was making out an inventory of these paltry things that the lay-brothers and novices carried away as soon as he had finished cataloguing them. And, in the deep voice, that seemed to issue from a barrel, came his touching reply:

"It is quite true, from a money point of view it would be better to leave all this stuff behind, for it will cost more to move it than it is worth. But we shall find our exile less painful if we have the things round us to which we are accustomed. It will be more like home yonder, with our old stuff instead of with new things."

"Where is Dom de Fonneuve?" asked Durtal.

"In the library, where he is superintending the packing of the books."

As he passed along the corridors Durtal knocked against more barricades of old furniture. Folded iron bedsteads and bottle-racks were placed against the walls; mattresses, slop-pails, bedroom-ware in china and enamel, plates and dishes, all lay on the straw. He met several monks whose hands he silently grasped. In all this confusion of things each seemed alone in thought, too sad to speak.

He reached the spiral fifteenth-century staircase, and, to the sound of hammering, went up to the second floor. The door of the library was open; from the landing a glimpse was caught of a succession of lofty rooms filled from floor to ceiling with books. Ladder-steps on wheels were being pushed by novices, among whom Durtal recognized Brother Gèdre and Brother Blanche.

Dom de Fonneuve was seated in a corner, looking very sad. He pointed to the lower shelves, filled with old folios, and tears came into his eyes.

Here were the great collected works of the Abbey the Prior’s best-beloved, dusty tonics, bound in parchment, vellum or yellow calf, with their gilt rubbed off, and their titles effaced.

He led Durtal up to them, and made him bend down to examine them more closely. Then he drew out one of the volumes from the shelf.

"This is rarity," he sighed. It was one of the Annales minorum of Wadding. Durtal ran his eye along the rows; there was the Monasticon anglicanum; the Histoire littéraire de la France by the Benedictines of St. Maus, the Recueil des Historiens des Gaules, the Gallia Christiana, the Acta Sanctorum in the old edition, the De Antiquis Ecclcsiae Ritibus of Martène, the Annales de Mabillon, the collected works of Le Nain de Tillemont, of Dom Ceillier and of Muratori, and Mansi’s Concilia.

"Look, what a fine edition of Baronius this is, in forty-two folio volumes. It is the 1738 edition, which includes the Annales Sacri of Tornielli; the best edition, for that of Bar-le-Duc has got no index.

"And here is the Patrology and the whole series of Migne, the Répertoire des Sources historiques du Moyen Age of Canon Ulysse Chevalier, Du Cange’s Glossarium and the dictionary of La Curne de Sainte Palaye, all of them most helpful to scholars living in the cloister."

The Prior spoke in an undertone and his hands shook as he listened to the hammering. It seemed as if each packing-case that they were nailing down was a coffin in whom lay one he loved.

"I wonder what will happen to all these, abroad," he murmured, "in a château where there is no room to house them, and no library ready to take them in?"

"Yes, take them," he said to Brother Blanche, who with smiling face came to say that he was ready to move the big lower-case folios.

He caught hold of Durtal’s arm. "Let us go downstairs," he said. On the way to the staircase they went through another room, from which most of the books had been removed. There were gaps in the shelves, and some of the books, no longer supported by neighbours, had fallen on their sides and sprawled in the dust.

He hurried Durtal downstairs to the cloister, but there, too, he ran into all sorts of odds and ends that had been brought down from the lofts to be packed.

"We had better go into the garden and get away from all this." But, on their way, they met M. Lampre who had just been in to see the Abbot. He looked depressed, and, from the appearance of his beard, one could see that he had been nervously pulling at it.

"Well," he asked, "Are you getting on with your packing of the books?"

"Yes," replied the Father with a sigh.

"And you are really off to Belgium this evening?"

"Yes, but I shall not stop there long, for I want to get back to Val-des-Saints to see the cases properly labelled. Ah! what a time it will take me to get this library resettled and classified in some lumber-room or God knows what."

After a silence, as if soliloquizing, the Prior continued, "What an awakening for us after having been shut up for years in a monastery and knowing so little of what goes on outside Now that I am in my seventy-third year, and find it less and less easy to sleep of a night, lying awake in bed, lam often driven to look into my conscience; and then I ask myself if God has not permitted this persecution by way of punishment, because He is displeased with the Orders; this idea haunts me in my sleepless nights.

"And yet," he went on, after a pause, "I am sure that in this Abbey God is really loved; I can truthfully say that we have not among us one bad monk; but is that enough?

"I call to mind what was once said some years ago by a postulant, a man of the world, whom, by the way, we dismissed as not having a vocation; I never forgot his words; this is what he said: ’In this monastery you get fairly good food, and sleep enough; there is no work to do and you save your soul; that will just about suit me.’ "

"Come, now, Father," broke in Durtal, "your food is not so good as all that!"

"Isn’t it good?"

"Well, it’s eatable enough, I admit, but that’s about all. On the score of gluttony you are quite safe."

The Prior looked dubious. "You have rather refined tastes," he said; "personally, I think the food good, too good in fact. But the kitchen-question is a side-issue; there are other things that, collectively, make me ill at ease.

"I can’t help thinking what it would have been like if I had never become a monk, and had remained in the world like you. I should certainly have had many trials and troubles which I have missed by being in a cloister. I should have had to earn my own living, pay my rent, perhaps bring up children, perhaps nurse a sick wife; or, supposing I had entered the secular priesthood, I shouId have been a country rector or curate, shouId have had a cure of souls, and have been compelled to run about visiting my parishioners, and to stick up for my rights against my Bishop and the often unfriendly local authorities. In short, 1 should have led a dog’s life.

"Instead of all that, I live in clover; no food to worry about, no rent to pay, no children to look after; no need to carry the Viaticum at night to people dying at the other end of the parish; of life’s cares I know nothing. For, being spared all this, what have I given to God? I fear, not much."

"Oh! Father, you are going too far," exclaimed Durtal. "You have worked all your life and have never taken a rest. Think of the annoyances of a life in common, a life that everyone else avoids; think of the early rising in winter at four o’clock, the long services in a cold church, the lack of freedom, and the mortifications that you do not mention."

"My friend, all that is but a prelude to the art of serving God. I am convinced that I have studied my own personal inclinations far too much; when I felt poorly I too easily invented excuses for not going down to Matins."

"You, indeed!" said M. Lampre. "Why, it was the Abbot himself who several times had to forbid your attendance at the early Office. You fainted in the choir and had to be taken back to your cell."

The Prior paid no heed. "It is evident," he continued, "that we monks are deficient in the inner life. We imagine that, when we have finished Office, we are quits with God; that is a great mistake. We ought to work and to suffer, instead of which we are. lazy and do not practise self-sacrifice. In all this where does the folly of the Cross come in?"

"Come now, Father," said M. Lampre, "with all due respect, I think you are just laughing at us. You have your full share of infirmities; for months together you find it hard to put one foot before the other, and, to get to chapel, you have to drag yourself along, leaning against the walls. You talk of self-sacrifice, but what more selfsacrifice than that do you want?"

"I quite agree that in the monasteries we could do with more monks whose lives are wholly given up to God, and I have never ceased to declare this. But, anyhow, at Val-des-Saints, as you just now witnessed, there are no bad monks; that is something to boast of; moreover, spiritually, your house is better off than many more wealthy abbeys where, as everywhere else, money tends to corrupt and demoralize. Luckily you are poor and not crazy to build palaces and to buy up parks. Your novitiate is full of pure, guileless souls, and my opinion is that you are going to suffer in order to make reparation for others’ faults rather than for your own."

Durtal could not repress a smile; here was M. Lampre actually defending the Benedictines; the very man who always attacked them!

"We must also make expiation for the pride we take in our Order," said the Prior in a lower tone. "We are living on an ancient reparation of which we are no longer worthy; the time has come for us to say ’Mec culpa,’ now that God chastises us."

The old man’s eyes were full of tears; he spoke so humbly and with such conviction. In sheer love and admiration for his great learning and his great goodness, Durtal could not help embracing him, whereupon the old man burst into tears. Then, recovering himself, he exclaimed petulantly,

"See what a fine monk I am! I fear I am more like some weak woman It is too silly of me to behave like this, but the fact is, I was so upset at seeing them packing up the books I am so fond of; it will teach me to follow the Rule and not to set my heart on anything. Now, good-bye, I am off to strap my portmanteau; in a few days you will see me again. By the way, you are coming to our function this evening, are you not?"

"Certainly, Father."

The old Prior left them.

"I suppose you spoke to Father Abbot?" asked Durtal of M. Lampre.

"Yes; it is all settled; no monk except Father Paton will remain at Val-des-Saints; our plan of continuing the Office is knocked on the head. By the way, the Abbot wants to have a chat with you, as he has some proposal to make to you."

"What proposal?"

"That he did not tell me."

The bells now rang for Vespers and both went into the church.

After the service, which was not out of the ordinary, the Abbot put on a white stole, and, following the procession of monks, with Brother Blanche and Brother Gèdre in front of him bearing his crosier and mitre, he walked back by way of the nave to the cloister. M. Lampre and Durtal followed in his rear, and they all made their way to the Chapter House, a large room with oak beams across the ceiling, plain benches along the walls, and a raised dais and throne at the end, above which was a crucifix. On each side of the throne was placed a stool and on the right was a table on which were a basin, a ewer, and towels.

In the middle of the room, facing the abbatial chair, there was a carpet, two lighted candles, and two chairs, one for the novice and the other for Father Felletin; in front of the novice’s chair were a stool and a red velvet cushion.

When all had taken their seats, Father Felletin approached the Abbot and, bowing, said to him in Latin,

"Right Reverend Father, the Rule has been read a first time to our Brother Baptistin Cholet; is it your pleasure to invest him with the cowl of the novices?"

"Go and bring him hither."

Father Felletin left the room and came back after a few minutes with Brother Cholet, who looked rather frightened and kept his eyes fixed on the ground. He prostrated himself at full length on the floor.

"Quid petis? What seekest thou?"

"The mercy of God and brotherhood with you."

The Abbot replied: "May the Lord number you with His elect."

"Amen."

Then the Abbot said, "Surge in Nomine Domini."

The Brother rose, and then knelt down. The Abbot held up the Rule of St. Benedict and asked him if he would observe it, and on receiving a reply in the affirmative, he said,

"May God complete what He has begun in you."

Then he spoke a few words, giving thanks to the Almighty, Who, in this time of sadness, vouchsafed him the consolation of seeing another member added to his flock when he had finished his address, he put on the plain mitre, intoned the anthem, "Mandatum novum do vobis," which the two choirs of monks took up, and sang exactly as at the Washing of Feet or Maundy Thursday.

As soon as the anthem began, the postulant, first saluting the Abbot, sat down in his chair opposite the throne, took off his shoes and stockings and placed his bare feet on the footstool.

Then the Abbot, girt with a towel, followed by his assistants and by Father Emonot, as temporary Master of Ceremonies, knelt down on the velvet cushion. One of the servers held the basin, while the other poured from the ewer some lukewarm water scented with aromatic herbs, and the Abbot washed the Brother’s feet and then dried them with a towel which he afterwards used to cover up the toes, while leaving the rest of the feet bare. Then he kissed them, and each monk in turn knelt down and did the same.

From the way in which such kisses were given one could estimate the degree of fervour and affection of Fathers and Brothers. Some eagerly pressed their lips to the feet of the newcomer, seeing in him, as in every guest, the image of Christ. Others kissed with equal energy out of brotherly love. Some, on the contrary, kissed lightly — a mere touch of the lips, as if performing a duty that to them was a duty and nothing more. As for Durtal, he merely thought vaguely of the fittingness of this ancient custom, to which, throughout the ages, the Church had kept, of this lesson of humility which St. Benedict gave to all his monks. But, all at once, in the midst of his reverie, he was forced to smile; Father Philogone Mine, who had been seated, helpless, in a corner, suddenly woke up and became interested in what was taking place. With the help of two brothers on either side he, too, crawled to the cushion and imprinted a lusty kiss upon little Cholet’s feet, after which he was with difficulty lifted up again and led back to his place.

When all the monks had thus filed past, and the choir was chanting the "Ubi charitas, the novice put on his stockings and shoes and knelt in the middle of the floor; the monks likewise knelt at their places.

The Abbot took off his mitre and, with his back to the company, intoned sundry versicles, and the Kyrie, and recited the Pater, bringing the service to a close with three prayers, the last being as follows: "Renew, O Lord, in Thy Church, the spirit by which Thy servant, Blessed Benedict, Abbot, was inspired, that we, being filled therewith, may love that which he loved and accomplish the work which he hath given us to do. Through Jesus Christ our Lord."

All the monks having responded "Amen," the Abbot withdrew, this time at the head of the procession.

The ceremony would be completed on the following morning at High Mass, when, after the Communionanthem, the Veni Creator would be sung and the Abbot would invest the novice with the cowl; thereupon the latter would go the round of his brother novices, embracing each in turn, and finally take the seat in choir that was in future to be his.

There was always something touching about this first ceremony of the "Mandatum," when an Abbot knelt at the foot of the mere boy whom he was receiving into his fold. Durtal had often witnessed the sight, but on this particular occasion, the very evening before the monks’ departure, it was strangely affecting.

Wending his way through the cloister, he ran into Père Ramondoux, who told him that the Abbot wished to see him.

The Abbot’s room was on the first floor. It differed from those of the other monks only by having a smaller one annexed, in which was an iron bedstead of the usual monastic type; the walls were whitewashed; a desk, painted black, a wicker armchair, a deal cupboard and, on the wall, an oak cross without Christ on it, and a Beuron coloured print of the Virgin — these constituted the shabby furniture.

After shaking hands with Durtal, who kissed his ring, they sat down and the Abbot said,

"My dear son, for nearly two years now you have been living near us and among us, and have earned the love and respect of all; in a few days we shall have to part, as Père Felletin tells me you have no intention of removing to Belgium with us. I cannot say that you are wrong not to do so, for I don’t know how we shall manage to make ourselves at home in Waes, where the natives speak only Flemish. But when once things get straight I shall let you know, and you must promise to come and see us as soon as we have got a room ready for you. You will, won’t you?"

Durtal bowed.

"Now, another question. M. Lampre would have been pleased, and you, too, I think, if I could have left a few Fathers here to look after the monastery and to continue the Office. But that I cannot do. Besides the annoyance that would bring us from the Government, whom we should thus furnish with an excuse for confiscating the Abbey, I want all my staff yonder; you see, it will be considerably reduced by the leave I have had to grant to several of my monks who wish to visit their families before leaving the country. I was anxious to tell you this myself that you might know that it was impossible for me to act otherwise.

"I have now a request to make to you. You are aware that it is our bounden duty never to interrupt the Office, and, at all costs, we must see to it that the Liturgical service continues now until we are able to resume it in Belgium. Accordingly, besides Father Paton, who, on account of our vineyards, is not able to remove from Val-des-Saints, I am leaving Father Sacristan, and a novice, Brother Blanche, for the few days necessary. That makes three. But I have not got the fourth, who is needed to form a choir; those whom I had in mind have just asked for leave of absence; hence it occurred to me that you would consent to make the fourth. You know the Office as well as we do, after attending it for two years. You are an Oblate, hence a Benedictine like ourselves, so that there are no difficulties whatever."

"That depends; if it is only a matter of reciting the Office, perhaps I might be able to manage it, but if it were a question of singing, or of serving Mass, I fear I should be of no use at all."

"No, there is no question of that; the lay-brothers who are staying on with Father Paton will serve the Masses, and, even supposing that they were all unable to leave the vineyard, Brother Blanche, whom 1 am also leaving, will see to that. As for singing, there will be none at all, as neither of the Fathers has any voice; so all will be chanted without modulation."

"Then 1 consent."

"Many thanks." After a silence, the Abbot continued:

"You will find it very dull here, all alone. Don’t you intend to leave Val-des-Saints after we have gone?"

"Certainly I do. I have never been fond of the country, and if I came here it was because of the Abbey. Now that the Abbey is going, nothing further interests me here. After thinking it all over, it seems to me that my wisest plan would be to leave the provinces, of which I have a horror, and go back to Paris. I shall try and choose a quiet part and find some cheap, cosy lodging, if possible, near a church."

"Why don’t you take rooms near our friends, the Benedictine nuns in the Rue Monsieur? They have High Mass and choral Vespers every day; they are saintly women, and, in their sanctuary, you could follow the Office just as you did here."

"That is a good idea; but will you allow me to ask you exactly when your monks leave, as I have to know for certain in order to arrange my affairs?"

"Next week; the entire novitiate will leave with the lay-brothers under the direction of Father Felletin. On their arrival they will do the rough work, and get ready the oratory and the rooms. Some of the Fathers with Dom de Fonneuve will then go, and, as soon as they get settled down, I shall join them with the rest. I want to be the last to leave the ship."

"Very well, and as soon as the liturgical service is resumed in Belgium I shall start for Paris."

"That is settled, then."

Durtal again kissed the Abbot’s ring; no sooner had he got outside the monastery than he met the curé who was on his way there. The latter at once began to deplore the political situation and the banishment of the monks. He kept on talking as if he could never stop.

"Good Lord!" thought Durtal, when he had got rid of him. "I suppose I ought to be just towards this man. I can hardly forgive him for having done away with plainsong arid dinned his silly tunes into our ears, but, if, against his own interest, which is to have the church to himself, lie is, as he tells us lie is, genuinely sorry that the monks are going, why, I would gladly shake hands with him; for that would prove him to be a jolly good fellow in spite of all his rather mean tricks. Now let us go and have dinner!"

That evening, at table, when Madame Bavoil, who had calmed down, asked when the Benedictines were going, Durtal told her all about his interview with the Abbot.

"Who is this Father Sacristan," she asked, "that is going to stay with Father Paton?"

"I know very little of him. Dom Beaudequin is a fat Norman; sly and pigheaded, so they say, and on very good terms with the curé, which is perhaps why the Abbot leaves him here. He, first of all, played the very deuce with the new curé; then he changed his tactics, no one knows why, and became the parish-priest’s best friend. At any rate, I shall see nothing of him except at the Office.

"As for Father Paton, he is a good sort; straight as a die, and a saintly man. Only, he is always working in the vineyard, and until now I have hardly ever spoken to him."

"Ah! you’ll soon become intimate," said Madame Bavoil. "By the way, Mademoiselle de Garambois called to see you. She’s always in tears, and vows that, if it were not for her uncle, she would he off to Belgium, too."

"When you come to think of it," said Durtal, "in all this trouble it is we ourselves who deserve to be pitied most. For, after the first shock of being uprooted from the old abode, the Fathers, when once settled at Moerbeke, will have their cells and their services as before. The true monk has no country but his monastery. It matters little to him if it be in France or abroad, as he is not supposed to leave its precincts; so to him exile does not mean very much; except that, instead of wine, he will get beer, his life will be the same, and, as for the novices, they will look forward as children do to seeing new places and people, and to the excitement of a journey. But, for us, it means that our whole way of life is upset by this damnable Bill; it means moving all our belongings, and no end of a bother!"

Chapter XV

SAD days and still sadder nights ensued. Every day the number of vacant stalls in the choir increased. Before deportation all the monks were going home to their relatives, and had to join the Abbot in Paris in order to accompany him to Belgium.

Owing to this, Mass was now celebrated with only one server, and the status of the feasts could be recognized only by the number of lighted candles.

The newspapers continued to publish their comments as usual, devoting most of their space to the return to Russia of the Czar, who would appear to have come to France merely to divert public attention, and play the part of organ-grinder to drown the cries of the victim in the Fualdès affair. In the monastery, now that the Russian Emperor’s visit was over, the exodus of the two Abbeys of Solesmes formed the main topic of conversation.

The novices were full of admiration for their method of retreat in so grand and spectacular a style, and were sorry that the same could not be done at Val-des-Saints which they had to quit in small detachments. The older monks calmly shook their heads and said: "Solesmes has a more devoted population than Val-des-Saints, and who knows, when once the Benedictines have turned their backs, whether even at Solesmes the people will not join their foes?" They also discussed the departure for the Isle of Wight of the nuns of St. Cecilia; it meant the utter abandonment of that Solesmes so beloved by Dom Guéranger.

"And with no hope of coining back," thought Durtal, "for, before very long, the Abbey of St. Pierre will be sold by the Government and taken over."

The moment for the departure of the Novitiate was drawing nigh. Before they left, it was decided to celebrate a final Pontifical Mass. The curé had offered the use of the church for the Sunday preceding their going, which happened to be the Feast of Our Lady of the Seven Dolours; this mournful festival seemed well chosen for bidding a last farewell to the church; the following day, the Fathers, being too few in number to fill the choir, would have to chant the Office in their own oratory.

On this Sunday the Mass was well attended by the peasantry. Almost all of them were Socialists and had always clamoured for the suppression of the Congregations; but they felt that the closing of the Monastery would spell bankruptcy for the countryside. They all lived on these hated monks, especially the poor, who used to leave their baskets at the porter’s lodge, and carry them away full, thus being sure of getting food from day to day.

The peasants were half sorry, half angry; most of them felt that the Benedictines ought to have submitted to the new Law, and continued to let themselves be sponged upon.

It was found rather difficult to arrange an imposing ceremony, as the number of servers was limited. However, they succeeded in doing so. The Smyrna carpet, the green prie-dieu, and the draperies usually hung about the altar had already been packed up. For these they made up by shrubs in boxes and by flowers, The Abbatial chair was set off by a background of green leaves, and the relics in their shrines shone in the light of wax tapers. Father Emonot acted as Master of Ceremonies, Dom Paton and another monk attended the Abbot as deacon and sub-deacon; three young novices officiated as crosier-bearer, mitre-bearer and bugia-bearer, and a lay-brother was train-bearer. Village choir-boys acted as acolytes and two of the absent cantors were replaced by Brothers Gèdre and Blanche, who had nice voices.

Hence the ceremony had traces of its former splendour. The Abbot made his entry in cappa magna, giving his blessing to the faithful, and then went and vested for Mass. The Mass itself was a beautiful one, the Introit, and still more the Sequence, giving an affecting glimpse of Calvary. There is no more touching Sequence than this Stabat Mater; it is like a new Magdalene who bathes the feet of the Mother with tears, as the first Magdalene had bathed those of her Son, and the clear, rather tremulous voices of Brothers Gèdre and Blanche, who were nervous about leading the singing, lent additional feeling to those strophes which appeal to Mary for the gift of a share in her tears.

Rendered in this ingenuous, half-frightened way, the Sequence had a note of tenderness that it would certainly have lacked if the Precentor, Father Ramondoux, had been there to overpower all the other voices with his bovine beliowings.

"How lucky for us that he is on leave of absence!" thought Durtal. "But, alas! "he added sadly, "I have got to my last bottle of plain-chant, and tomorrow the cellar of Gregorian melodies will be empty."

After the Gospel, the curé ascended the pulpit, asked for the Abbot’s blessing, and, in a few well-chosen words, warmly praised the monks, expressing on behalf of his parishioners his regret at their departure.

"After that," thought Durtal, "I forgive him everything — even his hatred of plain-song." And when Mass was over, he cordially shook hands with the curé and then went to see Pére Felletin in his cell.

He wanted to make his confession, but there was no prie-dieu and no chair in the room; everything had gone, even the cross and the coloured engraving of Our Lady. There was nothing but a straw mattress on the floor, on which the priest was to sleep that night. The monk seated himself on the window-ledge, and, as the floor was very dirty, Durtal spread out an old newspaper and knelt down on that. After confession was over they talked for a while.

Dorn Felletin did his best to be cheerful and to be hopeful for the future; it seemed to him that Providence might have designs that would tend to the Church’s bettering, and that the political fanatics in Paris were perhaps, all unawares, working for a good and useful purpose. He added:

"Tomorrow, at dawn, we are off. We shall stay the night in Paris at the Benedictine Convent, where the nuns will put us up. In the morning, after Mass, I shall take all the novices and lay-brothers to Notre-Dame-des-Victoires; in the afternoon, if there is time, we shall make a pilgrimage to the Basilica of St. Denys, and, in any case, to St. Germain-des-Prés; it is only right that we should do homage to the statue of our Lady there and visit our great ancestors, Mabillon and Monfaucon, whose memorial stones have been let into the wall of the new chapel of St. Benoit Labre. St. Germain-des-Prés is, of all Paris churches, the one that means most to us. Besides having being once the Abbey-church of our monastery, it now contains Notre-Dame-la-Blanche, Comfort of the Afflicted. Her statue, on the right of the main entrance, was offered to our Abbey of St. Denys in the fourteenth century by Queen Jeanne d’Evreux. During the Revolution it remained in the museum of the Petits Augustins and finally found its place at St. Germain-des-Prés in an ancient church of our Order, so that it is a Benedictine relic, though, alas, quite forgotten, for no one, not even in our monasteries, knows of its existence."

"Poor Church!" exclaimed Durtal, "how it has been ill-treated! First of all, sad to say, by our brethren of St. Maur, who, in the seventeenth century, bedizened it in the style then popular; but worse was to come later when its walls were sulpicianized, and covered with Flandrin’s mawkish effusions. They altered the nave from top to bottom, replaced the eleventh-century capitals by coarse gilt reliefs, and painted the whole church columns and vault in hideous polychrome, Tripoli reds, dead browns, pepper greys, and a washed-out green of the colour of well-boiled lettuce.

"But still, I think this, Father. Disfigured and defiled though it is, the church is an admirable one if we compare it with those built by our modern nonentities. Its twelfth-century choir — which later architects, in a happy fit of distraction, actually spared — must always appeal to lovers of art. If, as seems likely, I am left stranded in Paris, I shall have a good chance of often going there to recite my Office, adding the prayer to our Father St. Benedict and the short hymn Te decet Laus, which is all we have in our Breviary. For more than two centuries the Saint has not heard them beneath that roof; I will thus show him, that, in Paris, there is still someone who speaks his Liturgy and is mindful of him and of his.

"And, of course, I shall go and see the Benedictine Virgin; in the absence of any monks she will be content with the prayer of a layman of the Order, who, at any rate, knows her and her history."

"Yes, do that, my dear son, and don’t forget me in your prayers to her. I certainly need them, for, though I am a monk, I am a man, too, and it is dreadfully hard to tear myself away from all that"; and he pointed to the church, the buildings and the gardens.

Durtal, through the window, looked at the paths which stretched away before him; the one bordered by hornbeam and reserved for the Fathers; and that other with trellised vines where the novices walked. They were deserted. Everyone was busily making his final preparations. Life had first departed from the gardens, where solitude already reigned.

"And what about St. Benedict’s ravens and St. Scholastica’s doves?" asked Durtal, as he noticed in the distance the grotto-cage topped by the statue of St. Joseph.

"Father Paton will look after them. In such a removal we can hardly take the poor birds with us."

A gentle knock was heard at the door and Brother Gèdre’s head appeared.

"Father, the Relics are now going to be packed."

"Come along with us," said the monk, as he put on his cowl.

They went upstairs to the novices’ class-room, where on the tables lay heaps of bronze and silver-gilt reliquaries made in all sorts of shapes; tiny churches and castle-keeps, and round or oval medallions. Two novices stood by with lighted candles, whilst Dom Emonot wrapped each reliquary in white linen and carefully packed it away in the hay with which the cases were filled. When the work was done they all reverently bowed, and then closed the case and, blew out the candles.

Durtal said good-bye to them all, for he would not see them again, and returned with Father Felletin to his cell, where they took affectionate leave of each other.

"I’ll look you up in Paris," said the monk, "as I must be there from time to time on business connected with the novitiate. I shall get you to come and dine with me. Don’t be afraid; everything will turn out better than we think."

"God grant that it may! "sighed Durtal.

A similar scene of farewell took place some days later with Father do Fonneuve. Durtal had hunted for him in vain, in the cloister, the library and his cell; at last he found him in the oratory, sobbing before the altar, his head in his hands; the old man seemed haunted by gloomy forebodings. "We shall meet again in Heaven," he said gloomily.

"But before that, too, at Moerbeke, when I pay you a visit; or in Paris, when you come there," replied Durtal, with forced cheerfulness.

"You will have to come very soon to Moerbeke, if you wish to see your old Prior again," replied the other, as he embraced his friend and gave him his blessing.

"That is the end of all," thought Durtal, when these two whom he had loved most had gone. With their disappearance, he broke down; he felt utterly discouraged; wandered idly through the rooms and the garden, ill at ease, and unable to do a stroke of work.

He was utterly disinclined to attempt anything or to stir out of doors. If he finally settled to go back to Paris it was because there was no other choice. Val-des-Saints without the Benedictines was out of the question; the alternative of a provincial town was odious, for it would have meant being without either the charm of the country or the advantages of a capital; hence either here or Paris!

When once lie had made up his mind, the thought of having to take a train, hunt for a lodging, and move his belongings conjured up dreadful visions.

"It would be better to bury myself here," he sighed, "than to begin life over again; to go back to the old existence of years ago. God knows, when I left Paris I had no idea of ever going back. Yet I am driven to it, for it is sheer madness to think of stopping here. No, no, I have seen quite enough of the sly snouts of the titled turnips and country bumpkins here! Anything, everything, rather than Val-des-Saints."

Then he tried to work up an enthusiasm for Paris. "Of course, there is all the worry of moving one’s things," he thought, "but afterwards, when I get settled, I can well manage to lead a haif-conventual and really peaceful life.

"Paris is full of churches steeped in the spirit of prayer, far more than all the provincial sanctuaries in a lump. Her Lady Chapels, like those of Notre-Dame-des-Victoires, St. Sèverin, St. Sulpice, the Abbaye aux Bois, and others, are so many dispensaries where our Lady smilingly distributes remedies for all kinds of wounds."

In summer he pictured himself strolling along the quays in quest of old books, or entering, at St. Germain l’Auxerrois, the lonely chapel of the Holy Souls at the end of the sombre apse. Some other time, he might go as far as St. Sèverin, or Notre Dame, or linger on his return in St. Germain-des-Prés. In Paris there were surely sanctuaries to fit every passing disposition of the soul.

Then, by way of recreation, there were the Louvre and Cluny museums. Finally, from the Benedictine point of view, now that all the monasteries of the Order were about to vanish, was not Paris the last refuge?

If the nuns of the Rue Monsieur had for years past been authorized, as Father de Fonneuve said, he would still be able to attend the Office and hear Plain-song. Then, too, there was St. Germain-des-Prés, with its Lady Chapel, its memorials of the monks of St. Maur, its choir where generations of monks had knelt in prayer; what apter place was there for dreaming and prayer?

By such means he sought to stimulate his interest in Paris. But in this he failed. The prospect of going back there did not allure him.

Then he walked his garden, now full of the blossoms of autumn. Birds were twittering in the coppices; the little whitish florets of basil and balm gleamed like stars. The Michaelmas daisies, mints, and sages were being trampled and pumped dry of their sweets by companies of busy bees; the leaves of the chestnut trees were beginning to glow like copper, and those of the maples were moulting from blood-red into bronze; the tiny spikes of the cedar were turning blue, and its branches showed little brown packets, which, if you touched them, covered your fingers with a yellow powder resembling that of lycopodium.

Was it this garden, with its scented shade, its quiet pathways and its beds of flowers, that held him back? No; for he felt no attachment whatever to the place; he could think without a touch of regret of leaving the home where, at one time, he had expected to end his days. He wished neither to go back to Paris nor to live at Val-desSaints; but what then?

"What I want is to stop here, but with the Office and with the monks!" he exclaimed. Then he gave his fancy rein, dreaming how the fall of the Ministry might, with lightning swiftness, set matters right, allow him to stay and the monks to return. But it was a wild dream and nothing more, and only served to deepen his depression and to make him more and more downhearted.

Painful as they were by day, these bouts of delirium became, at night, quite appalling. No sooner had he put out his candle than his mind became disordered. The dark acted upon him as a convex mirror of phantasms, as a microscope that makes straws look as large as beams. All his difficulties became enlarged. This moving would involve fetching a pantechnicon van from Paris, in fact, two would be necessary, as his books alone, in their fifty baskets, would make one van-load. What on earth would it all cost?

Then again, how was he going to get rooms? Where could he possibly stow away his many books and knick-knacks? It was no good thinking of a newly-built house with its glazed partitions and folding doors, wainscotted in cream-coloured wood, and with ceilings in blue-white distemper. Apartments of that sort were built for people who haven’t got any furniture and still less any books.

No; what he would have to do would be to find rooms in an old house of some sort. But then, it would certainly be damp and badly lighted; the rooms would be inconveniently arranged and as difficult to heat as a refrigerator.

"Then again, practically speaking, it will have to be in the Latin Quarter, if possible near the Rue Monsieur. Is it at all likely that I can find anything fairly cheap in that neighbourhood?"

And if, thus pondering, he dropped off to sleep, his slumber was fitful and at three he was awake again, tired and unrefreshed. Though he tried to keep his eyes shut in order to encourage sleep and oblivion, it was all labour lost; the brain-machinery had been set in motion and quickly gathered speed. To recover himself he tried to tell his beads, but they slipped through his fingers, powerless to divert his thoughts.

Four o’clock came; a fearful moment, for, after the four strokes no sound of abbey bells was heard; no summons to call the monks to prayer; no Angelus; the very air had in it the silence of death.

After thinking over all his troubles and his fears, Durtal railed at those Catholics who continued to take life so easily, just as if nothing were happening, while the monks were being driven out of France. Newspapers, like the Gaulois, with its reports of dinners, receptions and balls, conclusively proved how heartless and irresponsible such people were.

"I am much afraid," sighed Durtal, "that Madame Bavoil is right when she predicts fearful punishments. God’s patience must be near its end. In fact, nothing now remains standing. Everything is going to rack and ruin; bankruptcy stalks everywhere; bankruptcy of materialistic science, bankruptcy of seminary education; bankruptcy of the Orders; soon everything will be bankrupt. Perhaps, after all, the Anarchists are right. The social edifice is so rotten and unsteady that it would be better for it to collapse; then, later on, perhaps, we might rebuild it on a better plan.

"Meanwhile, it is dreadful to think that God may leave us to stew in our own juice and will only intervene when we are thoroughly cooked. Ah! if only we were like the gold in the furnace of which the Bible speaks! But we are rather like the tinned kitchen saucepan; and the fire melts away our brilliance instead of refining us.

"Come, I had better get up, for it is five o’clock at last." So saying, he dressed, and went down to Mass in the Oratory.

Like the other services, this early Mass was a strangely gloomy one in the dim candle-light. The Abbot no longer said it with his usual two assistants and his bugia-bearer; he had now only a lay-brother as server like any other monk.

Kneeling there in this humble little barrel-roofed shrine, with just its few stalls and benches, Durtal felt so utterly wretched that he found it hard to pray. His one consolation was to receive Communion with the monks who were not yet priests, and the lay-brothers. With them he knelt down near the altar as the Confiteor was recited, and there was something bland and composing about this simple rite, at which the outlaws passed each other, brother-like, the Communion-card.

Then a great silence ensued, as each one, crouched in the gloom, imploring the Almighty for help to bear his trial, and when Mass was over, all went out, not a word being exchanged.

"What’s the good of hanging on like this?" thought Durtal when he got home. "It would have been better to have cut the rope at one stroke."

At last the day was fixed for the departure of the Abbot and the last batch of monks. On the eve of this day, before Vespers, it grieved Durtal to see how the old man remained motionless, covering his face in his hands. When he rose to give the signal for the beginning of the service his face was contracted and his lips trembled.

During the chanting of the preliminary Nones, as he listened to the Psalm, "In convertendo," Durtal said to himself, "What irony there would be in this Psalm that celebrates the joy of returning, were it not for the verse which says that ’They who sow in tears shall reap in joy.’ But shall we ever have joy again, here?"

After Vespers, when, before leaving the Oratory, each one bent his head in silent prayer with head buried in the scapular, Durtal could not keep back his tears, as to himself he said, "O, Holy Virgin Mother, and you, poor St. Benedict, all is now over, the lamp goes out!"

Feeling heart-broken, he went home. Madame Bavoil was also in a state of great depression as she sat reading an old book near the kitchen stove. They glanced at each other sadly and both shook their heads. Madame Bavoil took up her book and gently read as follows: " ’Why is it, think you, that so few reach perfection? It is because so few can make up their minds to embrace the privations which are against their nature, and which make them suffer, because no one welcomes crucifixion. Our life is spent in spiritual theory, seldom put into practice. Providence takes most care of those to whom it gives the finest opportunities to endure suffering, but God bestows His favours only on His best friends, and gives them both the occasion to suffer much and the grace to endure.’ "

"Very true!" sighed Durtal, who glanced at the volume and noticed that it was a very rare work, by de Bernières-Lavigni, which had belonged to the library of Abbé Gèvresin.

"Great Heavens!" said Madame Bavoil, as she put down her book, "Who will deliver us from these workers of iniquity, these demons of the Synagogues and of the Lodges?"

"No one. There are two Pretenders to the throne, Madame Bavoil, but they wait for France to be brought them on a plate."

"A hot plate, perhaps?"

"No, for they would be afraid of burning their fingers. We have not a real man left. Humanly speaking, hope there is none. France is like one of the vineyards hereabouts, of which Father Paton was telling me. It is infected by what the peasants call pourridié, one of the oldest diseases of the vine in Burgundy. It is not phylloxera, but quite as bad. It is a sort of fungus which rots the trunk of the vines. They get gradually weaker and the stems begin to droop like weeping-wililows finally they die and their roots are so rotten that you can easily pull them up with a hand.

"Hitherto no effectual remedy has been discovered to check the ravages of this parasite; nor do we know of one, either, to check the Parliamentary pourridié with which we, too, are tainted.

"Like the other, this leaves behind it only corruption and decay. It eats up France and makes it putrid. It is the destruction of all that was true, of all that was clean. It is this plague which has made our country a vineyard of lifeless consciences, of dead souls."

"The devils’ vintage, my friend! Now do tell me, when does Father Abbot start tomorrow?"

"At five o’clock."

"I suppose we are going to the station to see him off?"

"Of course."

Early next morning they went to the station, being joined on the way by M. Lampre and Mlle. de Garambois, and, depressed though he was, Durtal could not help smiling when he noticed that, in spite of her grief, and though her eyes were full of tears, his sister oblate had not been able to forget her Liturgical finery. Virgin white was the colour of the day, but, to mark her mourning and sympathy, she had allowed herself the luxury of a violet tie.

When they got into the waiting-room they found Baron des Atours, his wife and daughter and other members of the local gentry who were talking with the curé in a corner.

Durtal shook hands with the priest and greeted the other gentlemen, and for the first time they all fraternized. One general sorrow made them forget their squabbles and brought them together. There was no doubt about their sincerity. They were good Catholics; and, though for petty, parochial reasons they were not fond of monasteries, they could not help deploring the persecution and being sorry for the departure of the monks.

They all spoke sadly, and were no more hopeful than Durtal that the Benedictines would soon return. By way of a diversion, the curé announced a great item of news which he had just received. The resignation of Mgr. Triaurault had at last been sent in and accepted and his successor, the Abbé Le Nordez, had already been appointed.

"I know the man," said M. Lampre in an undertone to Durtal; "a most officious person, and Mgr. Triaurault, fond as he was of grovelling to the Government, might pass is an independent Bishop in comparison to this fellow. It is a good thing that the Benedictines are going, nor do I advise them to return to the Diocese, for he is quite capable of forbidding them to celebrate Mass."

"Ah, here they are!" exclaimed Durtal.

The door opened and the Abbot appeared, followed by his monks. He looked pale and tired, while behind him the Fathers came hurrying in with their bags and valises. In their clerical hats they were hardly recognizable, so used was one to seeing them bareheaded. Father Titourne had lost something of his lanky Pierrot look, though his face was paler than usual; the two monks in charge of the infirmary also slowly led in Father Philogone Miné, holding him up underneath his arms. His hat seemed to be uncomfortable and he kept trying to take it off.

Baron des Atours came forward to meet the Abbot and made excuses for the absence of his son, who had gone up for his naval examination. Then, on behalf of those with him, he offered condolences.

The Abbot bowed, and specially thanked the Baroness and her daughter for having come such a long distance at so early an hour to give him their kindly sympathy. At that moment a crowd of peasant women invaded the room, moaning and murmuring. "Don’t lose heart," he said, "Trust and hope," and he smiled at Mlle. de Garambois and Madame Bavoil, who knelt down to kiss his ring.

The piercing sound of a whistle announced the train’s approach, and for a moment there was general confusion. Father Titourne ran hither and thither, looking for the Abbot’s valise which he had left he knew not where. Dom Paton and Brother Blanche embraced all the Fathers, while Dom Beaudequin, the sacristan, taking advantage of the bustle, joined the curé’s party in order to pay court to the nobles.

All knelt down. As he gave them his blessing, the Abbot, usually so well able to control himself, could not refrain from tears, arid seeing this, Mlle. de Garambois sobbed loudly.

The station-master hurried the monks to their compartments. Père Philogone had to be hoisted into the carriage. He groaned and kicked and did not want to go, but calmed down when the Abbot seated himself beside him.

"Good-bye, my children," said Dom Bernard in the doorway of the compartment, as he shook hands with Durtal and M. Lampre. "Courage! Be brave We shall meet again!"

As the train started, they knelt down on the platform and for the last time he blessed them, making a big sign of the Cross. Then, in clouds of steam and to the clatter of rolling wheels, all were gone.

Durtal, quite overcome, staggered to his feet and saw that from Brother Blanche’s eyes tears were streaming like a thunder-shower; Father Paton came up and tried kindly comfort. But it was too much for Durtal who, fearing that he might break down, too, hurried out before the others and strode swiftly homewards.

Chapter XVI

FOR those who lived there, life at Val-des-Saints seemed blighted. The clock had stopped at the very moment when the Abbot had crossed the monastery threshold to go to the station. No chimes were heard now, no sound of bells. So funereal was the impression thereby created in the village that, instinctively, the peasants began to speak in low tones, as if in a sick-chamber.

The inns — whose best customers had been people from Dijon and its neighbourhood who came to visit time monastery — all of a sudden became empty. The barber, whose main income was made by shaving pates and chins in the monastery, was now able to keep his shutters up all the week except on Saturday evenings. But the tradesmen who were first to suffer were the baker and the butcher, especially the latter, who, in default of a sufficient sale, had either to give up slaughtering, or else salt down his meat. Throughout the village there was general discontent, which was cleverly used by the Mayor and the Municipal Council to the disadvantage of the monastery. When the people reproached them for having ruined the place by their anti-clerical policy, they replied, "We did not expel the monks; if they had asked for authorization we should have hacked their request at the Prefect’s. They chose to kick against the Law, but that is not ow fault blame them, not us."

And alter a while the peasants turned their indignation against the Benedictines and even against the curé, who for lack of funds, could not help the distressed. But most of all they hated Father Paton, who deprived them of their last profits by refusing to permit strangers to visit the empty cloister. He was not easily roused, but he was cautious enough to put into civilian dress the three helpers who remained with him in the monastery. Like Durtal they concealed the great scapula of the Order beneath their clothes. One acted as door-keeper and cook, the other two worked like ordinary labourers in the vineyard, and occupied premises adjoining M. Lampre’s house. As for Dom Beaudequin, he stayed with his friend the curé, while Durtal provided a home for Brother Blanche.

Mlle. de Garambois helped Madame Bavoil with her packing and they tied up parcels together; her uncle, M. Lampre, went backwards and forwards, between Dijon and Val-des-Saints, getting legal advice, consulting business men and taking all precautions to fortify the Abbey against an eventual attack.

The gendarmes soon made their appearance, but they found that all papers were in order and that only one monk was living in the monastery with a lay door-keeper, and, having done their duty, they departed. Such was the state of things a few days after the Abbot had left.

Like some dismasted vessel, Durtal drifted on a sea of depression, and would surely have sunk, had it not been for the delightful companionship of Brother Blanche. He never knew before how much he had esteemed the monks. The result was a sort of mirage. He no longer saw the faults, the absurdities, the obviously human side of the monastery; the good but commonplace middle-age receded into the shade, while the two extremities, old-age and youth, stood forth in a bright light; the old monks, those brought up according to the olden standard, both dignified and deeply pious, and young novices in all the first fervour of their vocation. Thanks to those two elements there emanated from the monastery a power which in one particular resembled the power of the Liturgy in neither case was the power very noticeable to those under its influence any more than the current to the swimmer who swims with it; but as soon as the current ceases, as soon as the influence is removed, then one becomes painfully aware of one’s loss.

And thinking of the Abbot and of the Fathers who had shown him so many kindnesses and for whom he felt such deep affection, Durtal kindled anew his regret, and, also, his aversion for the peasants who, as he knew, hated him no less than the Benedictines.

Insulting inscriptions chalked on the Abbey walls and on his own, such as "Down with the monks! Down with the church-rats! Down with the shaven pates!" left no doubt about their unreasoning hostility.

"Ah!" he said to himself, "if I hadn’t promised the Abbot to stay on until the Office was resumed at Moerbeke, I would make a bolt for Paris and never set foot again in this horrid hole!"

But he had not much time to waste in brooding over his troubles, for every minute of his day was taken up. First he had to go to the Oratory, having carefully read over the Office beforehand for fear of making blunders. Then, on coming back, he, with Brother Blanche, had the business of wrapping up in paper those of his books of which the binding might suffer in transit; sorting out and filing his notes; packing up his curios; in a word, getting everything into perfect order so that the removal-man would have only to put the parcels into baskets and load up the pantechnicon.

They had been obliged to reduce the number of Services. Father Paton was head over heels in work and said Matins and Lauds on his way to the vineyard, whence he returned at six o’clock in the morning to celebrate a Mass which was attended by all. This was preceded by Prime and Terce and followed by Sext recited in common. Then each one went about his business, returning at five o’clock for None and Vespers; Compline was recited privately before going to bed.

To announce the hours of Service, Brother Blanche rang a muffin-man’s bell in the cloister, whereupon the monks put on their cowls and went into church two and two, the Fathers walking first and the novice and oblate last. Durtal sat next to Father Paton in the stalls, Dom Beaudeqiun and Brother Blanche being their opposites.

How utterly comfortless was the Office, brayed in unison in this cellar-like place! Durtal would produce from his pocket a candle-stump which he lit and then stood on the edge of his desk, straining his sight to read his Diurnal while the red and black letters on the page seemed to dance before his eyes.

There were no difficulties with the Little Hours, for he knew by heart the hymns and psalms of the week, which did not vary from Tuesday to Saturday. He had to study only those of Sunday and of Monday, which were different. But Vespers were always a bit of a nuisance, The Vesper proper was easy enough to recite, even when, at the Little Chapter, there was a jump from one Saint to another. But at the end everything had a knack of going awry. Sometimes there were three commemorations; one had to remember their order, and then hastily leap from one end of the book to the other, to pick out the Anthems and the proper Prayers. In spite of all the bookmarkers and of pictures placed between the pages, how easy it was to go wrong! With its perpetual crossreferences, and its many systems of pagination, what an awkward tool to use was this Diurnal!

Of course, if there had been time quietly to look out one’s way, all would have been well. But this was not the case; one had to hurry, and the least hesitation upset everything. To complicate matters, there was the deep, fatiguing bows at the Doxologies, and the difficulty of reading the text by the fitful light of a bit of candle.

Durtal managed, after a while, to pull along fairly well, but his anxiety to avoid any bungling, hindered him from recollecting himself or even from understanding the meaning of the words he was reciting; not until the end could he collect his thoughts in the short interval of private prayer allowed the monks before they leave the chapel after Office.

Yet, at the close of Sext, there was a solemn moment when the Common Prayer brought home to all the sad reality, the moment when Father Paton, lowering his voice, said:

"Divinum auxilium maneat semper nobiscum."

And the other three in the same tone responded,

"Et cum fratribus nostris absentibus. Amen."

In less troublous times this prayer simply referred to brothers who happened to be travelling; to-day it applied to all the monks, who had left their home, perhaps, for ever. And after this response there was silence; it recalled the parting scene at the railway-station; it reminded them of their forlorn position in a deserted Abbey; and each of the four went his way, without daring to confess how sad his thoughts were.

In the morning, after Sext, Durtal often used to wander about the Abbey gardens, dolefully smoking cigarettes.

Even for some time before the monks left, the garden had been neglected, as all the lay-brothers had been busily engaged in packing; now it had got quite out of hand. Weeds were growing apace; tomatoes and pears lay rotting on the ground. The flower-beds were overgrown by plants that to gardeners are taboo; charlock, herb-bennet, silverweed and cinquefoil, winter cress, and treacle-mustard, a ragged, untidy plant with slender, bare stalks, good perches for tiny parrots; even brambles were beginning to show their heads; Nature, no longer under control, was reasserting herself.

Sometimes, with Brother Blanche, he walked in the novices’ run. At its end, they reached the grotto where the doves and the ravens were kept. The ravens were reverend birds, having been brought from Monte Cassino, where they were bred in honour of St. Benedict; the doves, on the feast of St. Scholastica, enjoyed the privilege of being let loose in the Refectory after dinner and left free to pick up crumbs on the tables.

These birds seemed to feel their solitude and appeared bewildered. The ravens sat huddled up against each other, looking intensely glum. But the doves, recognising the Brother who always petted them, fluttered against the bars of the cage. This he opened and took them one by one, gave them corn, and, after kissing them and assuring them that he would never forget them, he put them back into their home again.

"Ah!" he said, almost in tears, "if I were not obliged to travel with Father Beaudequin, who has a horror of at animals, I should take them with me; I am sure Father Abbot would let me off with a gentle scolding. However, it’s a good thing that Dom Paton is here, for he wont let them starve."

On other occasions, when this Father did not go back to the vineyard after service, they both stayed with him and helped him to clear up the mess in all the rooms; the floors were strewn with shavings, waste paper and straw; after sweeping them, they removed the rubbish in a barrow to a dust-heap outside.

When the cells and passages had been swept they went up to the lofts, intending to set them in order, too, but at the sight of all the queer-looking things that had accumulated there, their courage failed them.

Here was all the refuse of years. The Cellarer had a mania for keeping everything, and in this den he had deposited all sorts of broken and worn-out articles. Broken camp-beds, damaged or leaky cans, tins, lamps, stools, cracked saucepans, tables amputated of several legs, and even decapitated statues of saints, all lay there higgledy-piggledy under a layer of dust, a happy hunting-ground for rats.

Father Paton caught hold of a chair by its sole remaining leg, whereupon there was a roar and a crash, a sound of broken glass and of old iron in pain, and they were all smothered in a cloud of blinding dust. This was enough to discourage them from further enterprise.

"It would need a detachment of sappers to get us through all this pile of rubbish!" said Father Paton, as he brushed the dust off his clothes.

Durtal liked Father Paton for his dignity of manner and his single-minded kindliness. Tall, tanned in the vineyards, with steel-grey eyes behind horn-rimmed spectacles, he gave one the impression of being rather stern and hard, but, beneath this austere surface there was a sweet and almost timid disposition. It was to him that Durtal went to confession, for he admired his tact, his prudence, his self-effacement, and his heartfelt love for the Blessed Virgin; it was also charming to see what fatherly affection he lavished on Brother Blanche. Had he been his own child he could not have treated him with greater care.

But it is only right to say that it would have been difficult not to be fond of this nice-looking boy, with his bright eyes, and his merry laugh, his whole-hearted enthusiasm for his vocation, and the opportunity it gave of serving God and becoming a Benedictine. Yet, thoroughly innocent and pious as the lad was, he had a very clear perception of his surroundings; he had a calm outlook on life and never feared to express himself with outspoken candour, regardless of the consequences.

For Pére Emonot he had the greatest respect, and, when he was punished for talking too freely, took his penance as a matter of course. "He is a very just-minded man," he said; "often he pitches into me without my knowing why; then he explains matters, but even so, I don’t always see how serious my offence is. But, if he is sure that I am to blame, then to blame I certainly am 1 He never fools about, but if he is so strict it is simply because he wants to make us better; and, you know, anybody who carefully follows his directions will soon become a really good monk."

"But it seems to me, Brother, that you do follow his directions."

"Not as well as I should. Sometimes, when I don’t feel guilty and yet get punished, I feel a movement of rebellion; of course, I check the feeling, but still, I did experience it for a moment. I take the humiliation that is imposed on me, but I do not exactly run to meet it, which shows that I am far from having slain the old Adam and far from observing the precept of our holy Rule; for in Chapter V. on Obedience, we are told that, if ’the disciple submit with a bad grace, if he murmur, even only inwardly in his heart, God, who knoweth the heart, will not be pleased by what he doth.’ "

Then, after thinking awhile, he added, "I am not really eager to take the yoke or to knuckle under, hence I am far off from perfection.

"I have a cousin," he went on, "who was a great scholar and who became a Trappist. Well, he refused to be anything more than a lay-brother. Between ourselves, this is the touchstone of the two Benedictine branches: among the White monks, through humility, nobody wants to be a Father; among the Black monks, none of us is anxious to be a lay-brother."

"But," cried Durtal, "there is room for all. You will be more useful here as a choir monk than as a Brother."

"Perhaps; but if I were really humble, I should not have aspired to be a professed monk."

"Yes, but if everybody argued in that way there would be no more Office. If anyone is enthusiastic about the Trappist monasteries, it is I, for I once stayed at one of them, at Notre Dame-de-l’Atre, and certainly for saintliness they are unsurpassed. But the Cistercians have a special mission which is not the same as yours. In the Church there is room for all; one Order supplies what another lacks; hence we must take them as they are, and be on our guard, against any overweening desire for humility, for sometimes such exaggerated humility is not so far removed from pride."

Another day, as they were both tying up bundles of pamphlets, the conversation turned on that novice of freethinking proclivities who had been found a place in a seminary which was short of students. Blanche summed up very lucidly the state of mind of his former companion and friend.

"Brother Sourche’s heart," he said, "is all right, but his mind is all wrong; he used to read, and read, but never digested what he read. His poor brain was a tangled mass of doubts and scruples; sometimes he would rush about the corridors like a madman; at others he would shut himself up in the lavatory and sob piteously. It was all very sad, but it would not have done to keep him here, for he was a source of trouble to the others. He loved God, but in his fear of losing all his faith he made up for himself a religion of his own that was almost Protestant; he failed to see that, by entertaining doubts on the supernatural, he was on the high road to universal scepticism.

"Poor Brother Sourche! But though his brain was not quite right, he had a good heart. Not one of our Brothers was more affectionate or more charitable; he and I were great friends and when he left we exchanged disciplines."

"Of course," thought Durtal, somewhat taken aback by the oddity of the gift, "that’s the only thing that the novices can call their own, so they can’t give each other anything else as a souvenir.

"And what about Brother Gèdre?"

"Oh, he is as good and sensible as can be; he and Brother de Chambéon are the best of all the novices; utterly forgetful of self, and wholly surrendered to God. Do you remember what a pretty voice Brother Gèdre had? I have never heard anyone sing the second phrase of the Gradual in our Lady’s Mass — the ’Virgo Dei genitrix’ as he did. But, then, he was really praying while he sang."

And Blanche himself began to sing the passage. Mlle. de Garambois, who was downstairs helping Madame Bavoil with the packing, as soon as she heard the sound of her adored Plain-chant, came quickly upstairs.

"What a good soul she is, too!" thought Durtal. "Always kind, and ready to help. hateful as Val-des-Saints had grown, Durtal was sorry to leave it for her sake and her uncle’s. Of course M. Lampre could not be expected to live in Paris; but her case was different; she was used to living in the neighbourhood of convents; why not then settle in Paris? Durtal, therefore, tried to persuade her to come, at least for the winter. Blanche was highly tickled by her reply:

"You have known me long enough to know that I should be spending hours and hours in sinful pleasure, gloating over the delicious things in the pastry-cooks’ shops. Here I don’t get much chance of committing the sin of gluttony, as the occasion is lacking, but in Paris...!"

"Are cakes so very nice, then?" asked the boy, who had hardly ever tasted one in his life.

"Nice? I should say they were "and, turning her eyes heavenwards, she added, "especially with just a sip of port wine afterwards." Then, blushing slightly, she exclaimed, "How naughty of you to get me to talk like this Just after confession, too I wasn’t thinking of anything of the sort and now you try to make my mouth water."

Then in a more serious vein she continued, "No, I am a fixture here. If I were to move, it would be to go and live in the neighbourhood of an Abbey; of an Abbey of Monks, you quite understand, for in a convent of nuns you never get any ceremonial or Pontificating, in fact, just what I want. To get what I need I should have to go into exile abroad, and then, probably, I should be disappointed; for very likely there would be no public church attached to the abbey, no church situated outside the enclosure and that women can attend.

"So that I should find myself stranded in a country where I hadn’t even a pussy-cat for acquaintance, and, to boot, be deprived of my Office. Besides, my uncle is old and now that he may need me it would not be fair to leave him in the lurch."

"At any rate, you will come to Paris now and again?"

"Oh yes, I might do that."

"And without wishing to lead her into temptation, I shall do my best to cook her something nice," said Madame Bavoil, who had just come upstairs.

Days passed, but no wire came from the Abbot. Durtal was ready; his plan of departure was decided upon. As soon as Dom Beaudequin and Blanche had received the order to rejoin the others in Belgium, he intended to go to Paris. Once there, supposing that he was lucky enough to find suitable apartments, he would interview the furniture-removers. The pantechnicons would take three days to reach Val-des-Saints and during those three days, if necessary, he would have the rooms re-papered, leaving them to dry during the four or five days that the loaded vans would need to get back to Paris.

He would not return to Val-des-Saints, thereby saving the price of a railway-ticket, while Madame Bavoil could come on by train as soon as the vans had started. Mlle. de Garambois had kindly offered to take her in when the beds had been packed.

As he gazed sadly at the flower-beds and trees in his garden, he said to Brother Blanche,

"I don’t know if any of us will ever come here again, but if we do, what changes we shall find! Some of those old trees will be dead; some of the small ones will have grown huge. All will look different. My successor, no doubt, will be less mercifully inclined towards those poor plants that I kept because they were dedicated to saints"; and he pointed them out to the boy. "That is the primrose dedicated to St. Peter, the valerian to St. George, the coltsfoot to St. Quirinus, the ragwort to St. James, the winter-cress to St. Barbara, the wormwood to St. John the Baptist, the ploughman’s spikenard to St. Roch, and how many others!"

"Except the red valerian growing in the wall, with its pretty blotting-paper-red blossoms, the others must be considered ugly, for most of them have vulgar yellow flowers such as are not considered fit for flower-beds. The gentleman who succeeds me will never understand why I ever tolerated them."

"It will be a wrench for you to leave the place," said Brother Blanche, "for you are really comfortable. But what I should most regret if I were in your place would be not to see, any more, our Lady of Good Hope at Dijon."

"But," replied Durtal, "in Paris there is a Black Virgin under another name, and, in her chapel in the Rue de Sèvres, she is worshipped with greater fervour than even Our Lady of Dijon. Then there are the White Madonnas, of which, in all Burgundy, there are none to equal Notre-Dame-des-Victoires, Notre-Dame-de-l’Espérance at St. Séverin, that of the cathedral of Notre Dame, Notre-Damela-Blanche of St. Germain and that of the Abbaye aux Bois, to mention only five!

"Well, if that is so, then you certainly can’t complain," said the novice.

At last, one morning as they were going to the oratory, Father Paton showed them a wire just received. It stated that the Office was now in full swing and instructed the two monks to leave forthwith.

Though he knew it was coming, it grieved Durtal to have to bid the Brother good-bye. They had lived together for a week, and, if the atmosphere had not been so heavy with sadness and regrets, those eight days would have been sweet and happy ones, spent, as they were, in God’s service.

"Ah!" said Durtal to himself after Vespers, on the last day, "Father St. Benedict, the lamp is re-lit in Belgium; we have now only to blow out our little rush-light!" And, to fit the action to the words, he extinguished his bit of candle, fit symbol of the squalid Office chanted by those faithful four!

The next morning he accompanied Brother Blanche to the railway-station, and, after an affectionate leavetaking, went back to M. Lampre, who had invited him to a farewell lunch. But the meal was a depressing one; in spite of the choice wines they were silent and sunk in thought. The end of the abbey meant the end of the oblates; the last remaining link would be broken when the two monks left; both of them felt that they were not likely to meet again.

It was by this same feeling that Durtal was obsessed as he took his seat in the express at Dijon; his friends had come as far as the town to see him off. They shook hands and mutual promises were made of trips to Val-des-Saints and of visits to Paris, but when the train had started, Durtal, on leaning back in his seat, had no illusions as to future meetings; he knew that the parting from sucL kind friends was final, and he felt utterly alone. And he said to himself:

"The experiment is over; Val-des-Saints is dead; I assisted at the interment of the monastery, and even played the part of sexton in helping to dig the grave of its Office. This is the sum-total of my doings as an oblate, and I am no longer one, for I have been torn away from my cloister. Still, it must be confessed that life is strange. Providence ordained that I should pass two years here, and then sends me back to Paris, no better than I was before. Why? I do not know, but one day, no doubt, I shall. But I can’t help thinking that there has been a hitch somewhere, to make me get out at an intermediate station instead of going right through to the terminus. Perhaps I was too presumptuous.

"O God Almighty, I fear it is rather naughty of me to say so, but, really, my faith in Thee is somewhat shaken. It looked as if Thou wert guiding me to a haven of safety. After many hardships at last I reach it; I take a chair to sit down for a rest and, behold, crack goes the chair, and I am landed on the floor. I am wondering now whether the same dishonesty prevails in the Heavenly workshop as in the earthly ones? Whether the celestial cabinet makers also manufacture cheap and nasty chairs, the leg of which give way as soon as you sit on them?

"I smile, though against my will, for these tunnels, of which I can’t see the end, get on my nerves. That Thou hast done what is best for me I may not doubt, and I am confident also that Thou lovest me, and that Thou wilt never forsake me, but, saving Thy Reverence, I ask Thee, my good Jesus, to put Thyself just for one moment in my place, to see that I am not speaking foolishly when I assure Thee that really I no longer know where I am.

"Was I obedient to Thy will, or was I not? When was at La Trappe there was no mistaking thy guidance I felt that Thou wert pleased; the orders and certain answers that came to me in prayer were clear and precise. But today I no longer hear Thy commands, and I have to act by myself, according to the light of human reason; not that I care a rap for human reason, but, sad to say, I have no other guide to listen to.

"Remember, also, O Lord, that I am not alone, but that poor old mother Bavoil is with me, and that we neither of us know where we are going. It is the parable of the blind leading the blind all over again, and perhaps the ditch is not far off.

"In a few days, if such be Thy will, we shall be settled once more in that Paris to which we had thought never to return. What will happen to us there? Will the chairs be more solid than at Val-des-Saints? Or will this, too, be only a temporary halting-place?"

After a little silent thought, he resumed, " All the same, what a catastrophe is this departure What a loss of peace, money, Liturgical piety, friendships and every conceivable thing I grumble, but I am not the most to be be pitied. Think of those who remain; of poor Mlle. de Garambois, alone, without her beloved Office; think of M. Lampre, who is fighting against legal chicanery in order to save his monks; think most of luckless Father Paton, left in that hole, far from his fellow-monks, and unable to live the life of a monk

"Yet their misfortune does not alleviate mine. Alas! it only makes it greater. How I shudder at the thought of going back to Paris, into all that hubbub! How ghastly it will be!

"Instead of a quiet house all to myself I shall find some domino-box of a poky flat with threats to my peace both above and below; with hysterical women thumping the piano; or noisy children dragging the furniture about in the afternoon, and at night howling with not a soul in the house brave enough to wring their necks. In summer it will be a sort of stuffy hothouse; in winter, instead of my blazing pine-cones on the hearth, I shall watch through a mica aperture an evil-smelling fire imprisoned in an iron stove. If I want views, there will be a landscape of chimneys to admire. Bah I I know them of old, those forests of sheet-iron stove-pipes, growing on the zinc roofs, against a grey background of mist! I suppose I shall get used to it in time and drop into the current again.

"And then — and then — there is much to atone for. If Divine chastisement is prepared for us, let us get our backs ready and show that at least we have the virtue of willingness. In the spiritual life we have not always the luck of the man who marries a washerwoman, or a midwife, who does all the work, while the husband can afford to look on and twiddle his thumbs!

"O, Dear Lord, grant that we may not barter our souls thus; grant that we may forget self once and for all. Grant that we may live, no matter where, so long as it be far from ourselves, and close unto Thee!"