avel?

"If only it might be now, as on other occasions when I have felt Thee
near me, when in response to my questions Thou hast answered me, if only
it might be here as at La Trappe, much as I suffered there! But no. I
hear Thee not--Thou dost not heed me."

Durtal was silent. Then he went on,--

"I am wrong to address Thee thus," he said. "Thou dost not carry us in
Thine arms unless we be unable to walk; Thou hast care and caresses for
the poor soul born anew by conversion; but when it can stand it is set
down on the ground, and Thou lookest on while it makes trial of its
strength.

"This is meet and right; but it does alter the fact that the memory of
those celestial alleviations, those first, lost joys is crushing to the
soul.

"O Holy Virgin, Holy Virgin, have pity on the rickety souls that
struggle on so painfully when they are no longer upheld by Thee! Have
pity on the bruised souls to whom every effort is painful; on the souls
whom nothing can console, to whom everything is affliction! Take pity on
the homeless, outcast souls, the wandering souls, unable to settle and
dwell with their kind, the tender, budding souls! Take pity on all souls
such as mine! Have pity on me!"

And before quitting the Mother he would often visit Her in those depths
where, since the Middle Ages, the faithful no longer seek her; he would
light an end of taper, and, turning aside from the nave of the crypt,
follow the curved line of the wall along the entrance passage as far as
the sacristy of this underground church, where in the ponderous
stone-work was a door strengthened with iron-work.

Through and down a little flight of steps, he reached a cellar which was
the ancient martyrium where, of old, in time of war the ciborium was
concealed. An altar stood in the middle of this well, dedicated in the
name of Saint Lubin. In the crypt the distant hum of the bells, the
sounds of life in the cathedral above, could still be heard; here,
nothing! It was like being in the tomb. Unfortunately, some squalid,
square columns whitened with lime-wash, built on the altar to give
support to Bridan's group in the choir above, spoilt the barbaric
simplicity of this _oubliette_, forgotten, lost in the night of ages,
and underground.

He went up again comforted nevertheless, accusing himself of
ingratitude, and asking himself how he could dream of leaving Chartres
and going away from the Virgin, with whom he could thus so easily
converse in sol