n me, for I no longer felt the cowardice of the flesh, I
could have cut asunder my very heart-strings. And now, O God, I offer
Thee my bleeding heart. It no longer belongs to any creature of this
world; it is Thine alone. To give it to Thee I have wrenched it from all
worldly affection. But think not, O God, that I take any pride to myself
for this victory. I know that without Thee I am nothing; and I humbly
cast myself at Thy feet.'

He sank down upon the altar steps, unable to utter another word, while
his breath panted incense-like from his parted lips. The divine grace
bathed him in ineffable ecstasy. He sought Jesus in the recesses of his
being, in that sanctuary of love which he was ever preparing for His
worthy reception. And Jesus was now present there. The Abbe knew it by
the sweet influences which permeated him. And thereupon he joined with
Jesus in that spiritual converse which at times bore him away from earth
to companionship with God. He sighed out the verse from the 'Song of
Solomon,' 'My beloved is mine, and I am his; He feedeth his flock
among the lilies, until the day be cool, and the shadows flee away.' He
pondered over the words of the 'Imitation:' 'It is a great art to know
how to talk with Jesus, and it requires much prudence to keep Him near
one.' And then, with adorable condescension, Jesus came down to him,
and spoke with him for hours of his needs, his happiness, and his hopes.
Their confidences were not less affectionate and touching than those
of two friends, who meet after long separation and quietly retire to
converse on the bank of some lonely stream; for during those hours of
divine condescension Jesus deigned to be his friend, his best, most
faithful friend, one who never forsook him, and who in return for a
little love gave him all the treasures of eternal life. That day the
priest was eager to prolong the sweet converse, and indeed, when six
o'clock sounded through the quiet church, he was still listening to the
words which echoed through his soul.

On his side there was unreserved confession, unimpeded by the restraints
of language, natural effusion of the heart which spoke even more quickly
than the mind. Abbe Mouret told everything to Jesus, as to a God who
had come down in all the intimacy of the most loving tenderness, and who
would listen to everything. He confessed that he still loved Albine; and
he was surprised that he had been able to speak sternly to her and drive
her away,