"And what must the nuns think as they hear these continual departures for the outer world? Those who have grown old in the convent would, of course, despise these calls, these invitations to live; the quietude of their spirits must increase as they find themselves protected for ever from the perils which the noisy rush of the trains must bring before them every hour of the day and night; they will feel more drawn to pray, for those whom the chances of life carry away to Paris, or bring back to the country, outcasts from the city. But the postulants--the novices? In the hours of desertion, of doubt as to their vocation, which must come over them, is it not appalling to think of the constantly revived memories of home, of friends, of all that they have left to shut themselves up for ever in a convent? "As each asks herself whether she can endure watching and fasting, must it not be a permanent temptation to rebel against being buried alive in a tomb? "And I cannot help thinking of the appearance as of a reservoir that the style of building gives to this Carmel. The image is precise, for the convent is indeed a reservoir into which God dips to draw forth the good works of love and tears, and restore the balance of the scales in which the sins of the world are so heavy!" Madame Bavoil smiled. "A very old Carmelite nun," said she, "who had gone into this House before railways were invented, died here hardly three months ago. She had never been outside the walls, and never saw an engine or a railway carriage. Under what form could she picture to herself the trains she heard thundering and shrieking?" "As some diabolical invention, no doubt, since these conveyances carry us to the wicked but delightful sins of towns," replied Durtal, smiling. "But it is a curious case, nevertheless." He was silent; then, changing the subject, he said,-- "And do you still hold communion with Heaven, Madame Bavoil?" "No," she answered, sadly. "I no longer have any converse or any visions. I am deaf and blind. God is silent to me." She shook her head, and, after a pause, she added, speaking to herself,-- "Such a little thing is enough to displease Him. If He detects a trace of vanity in the soul on which He shines, He departs. And as the Father tells me, the mere fact of having spoken of the special graces vouchsafed to me by Jesus, proves that I am not humble. In short, His will be done!--And you, our friend, do you still think of taking shelter in a cloister?" "I--my spirit still craves a truce; my soul is but shifting ballast." "Because, no doubt, you are not honest in your dealings. You behave as if you meant to strike a bargain with Him; that is not the way to set to work." "What would you do in my place?" "I should be generous; I should say to Him, 'Here I am, do with me as Thou wilt. I give myself unconditionally to Thee. I ask but one thing: Help me to love Thee.'" "And do you suppose that I have not blamed myself for my cowardice of heart?"