long sleep in that big silent house. He once
more saw the narrow cell in which he had lived through his two years as
student of philosophy--a little hutch with only a bed, a table, and a
chair, divided from the other cells by badly fitted partitions, in a
vast hall containing about fifty similar little dens. And he again
saw the cell he had dwelt in three years longer while in the theology
class--a larger one, with an armchair, a dressing-table, and a
bookcase--a happy room full of the dreams which his faith had evoked.
Down those endless passages, up those stairs of stone, in all sorts of
nooks, sudden inspirations, unexpected aid had come to him. From the
lofty ceilings fell the voices of guardian angels. There was not a
flagstone in the halls, not an ashlar of the walls, not a bough of the
plane-trees, but it spoke to him of the delights of his contemplative
life, his lispings of tenderness, his gradual initiation, the favours
vouchsafed him in return for self-bestowal, all that happiness of divine
first love.

On such and such a day, on awaking, he had beheld a bright flood of
light which had steeped him in joy. On such and such an evening as he
closed the door of his cell he had felt warm hands clasping his neck
so lovingly that he had lost consciousness, and had afterwards found
himself on the floor weeping and choked by sobs. Again, at other
times, especially in the little archway leading to the chapel, he had
surrendered himself to supple arms which raised him from the ground. All
heaven had then been concerned in him, had moved round him, and imparted
to his slightest actions a peculiar sense, an astonishing perfume, which
seemed to cling faintly to his clothes, to his very skin. And again,
he remembered the Thursday walks. They started at two o'clock for some
verdant nook about three miles from Plassans. Often they sought a meadow
on the banks of the Viorne, where the gnarled willows steeped their
leaves in the stream. But he saw nothing--neither the big yellow flowers
in the meadow, nor the swallows sipping as they flew by, with wings
lightly touching the surface of the little river. Till six o'clock,
seated in groups beneath the willows, his comrades and himself recited
the Office of the Virgin in common, or read in pairs the 'Little Hours,'
the book of prayers recommended to young seminarists, but not enjoined
on them.

Abbe Mouret smiled as he stirred the burning embers of his vine-stock
fire. In all tha