My guide was an intelligent, affectionate, resigned little Flamand, his natural cheerfulness of disposition tempered by the inevitable sadness of a vocation now generally despised, and quite apart from the swiftly-flowing current of modern life. Together we traversed the rooms and corridors of the modern buildings--until recently a penitentiary school--from which the members of the chapter, held annually in September, had departed only the day before my visit. On the walls of the assembly room were plans of the four daughter abbeys of Citeaux--La Ferté, Pontigny, Clairvaux, and Morimond; "Une mère bien féconde," as my guide said--and the signed letter of Pope Leo XIII., restoring Citeaux to the Cistercian order. The chapter table, round which ran the names of the abbeys represented, was still littered with pens and ink for use at the function. My monk pointed out the little ballot-box, filled with white beans, by means of which the voting was done. A majority of one carries the day, and the ballot is open, unless one member expresses a desire for it to be secret. The rule of St. Benedict, and the book of the constitutions, are kept on the table for reference, if necessary. We passed beneath the bust of St. Bernard, which is over the door, and descended to the foot of the stairs, where my companion put on again, over his sandalled feet, the sabots he had kicked off on entering. A moment later we were standing in the refectory, where, upon the table, were laid the spoons, the brown earthenware plates, the bowls and the napkins, all ready for the next meal. The abbot sits, as of old, at the head of his twenty-five monks, and in the middle is a table with three "couverts," where the same vegetarian repast is served to three souls in purgatory, the remains being given to the poor. Thence, I was taken to see the little cloister, the staircase tower and library, probably of the fourteenth century, all that remains of the great Abbey. On the way we passed through the garden, where a dozen or more black and white-robed brethren were busily digging the ground, still carrying on the tradition of St. Benedict, that in the sweat of their brow they should eat bread. That sight alone repaid well the trouble of coming to Citeaux in the rain. [Illustration: Justice and Truth] Meanwhile, my gentle guide talked resignedly of the ruin of the building, of the decay of the order. There was a note of deep sadness in his voice, as he said:-- "Justice and truth are like the sun; they traverse the earth; they set." "They rise again on the other side," I added. A smile lit up the peaceful, flamand face. "Yes, they rise again on the other side." We were at the gate. "How I wish my wife had been here," I said, thoughtlessly. "She would so have enjoyed talking with you." The little monk smiled, twinkled almost. Here was an artless stranger, indeed!