ychology of the cathedral, this study of
the soul of the sanctuary, so entirely overlooked since mediaeval times
by those professors of monumental physiology called archaeologists and
architects, so much interested Durtal that he was able by its help to
forget for some hours the turmoil and struggles of his soul; but the
moment he ceased to ponder on the inner sense of things seen, he was as
bad as ever.

The sort of requisition he had laid before the Abbe Gevresin, to put an
end to his tossing and decide for him one way or the other, was
distracting while it terrified him.

The cloister! He must reflect a long time before making up his mind to
imprison himself. And the _pros_ and _cons_ tormented him in endless
alternation.

"Here I am just where I was before I set out for La Trappe!" said he to
himself, "and the decision to be taken is even more serious; for Notre
Dame de l'Atre was but a temporary refuge. I knew when I went there that
I should not stay; it was a painful time to be endured, but it was only
a short time; whereas at this moment I have to come to a determination
from which there is no turning back, to go to a place where, if I once
shut myself in, I must stay till I die. It is imprisonment for life,
with no mitigation of the penalty, no pardon and release; and the Abbe
talks as if it were the simplest thing!

"What am I to do? Renounce all freedom, be nothing but a machine, a
chattel, in the hands of a man I do not know--God knows I am willing!
But there are other and more pressing questions from my point of view;
in the first place, this matter of literature--to write no more, to give
up what has been the occupation and aim of my life; that would be
painful; still, it is a sacrifice I could make. But to write and then
see my language stripped and washed in pump-water, all the colour taken
out by another man, who may be a learned man or a saint, but have no
more idea of art than St. John of the Cross! That is too hard. That
one's ideas should be picked over and weeded, from the theological point
of view, I quite understand, nothing could be more just; but one's
style! And in a monastery, so far as I can learn, nothing is printed
till the Prior has read it; and he has the right to revise everything,
alter it--suppress it if he chooses. It would evidently be better not to
write at all, but this again is not a matter of choice, since under the
rule of obedience each one must submit to orders, and treat