Irene prayed passionately, and with bitter tears—but all the time, reason was whispering in answer: “What are you asking? you know that you are praying for the impossible. Happiness for you can take only one form, that of love, love, love, that love of which you have been dreaming all your life! But think a little—how is that possible at your age? Love is nature’s method of continuing our race. That is why young girls are gifted with such attractions for young men. At your age, to have children is impossible—that is why beauty has been taken from you, and men pass you by with indifference. You ask for spiritual rest, but that is only attainable by people who have fulfilled the duties imposed on them by nature. You were born to be a wife and a mother—Where is your husband? Where are your children? Where is your family? God created the world on a foundation of logical laws, and, however passionately you may pray, He cannot change these laws.” Irene arose in despair. Oh! that accursed helpless logic, that kills all prayer and destroys all hope! Time passed, and Irene’s nervousness increased day by day. Sermons, church services, her disputes with Gzhatski, all this alike irritated and enervated her. Père Etienne observed the poor woman with real pity, but could devise no means of comforting or helping her. Happening on one occasion to mention a famous convent at Assisi, which he thought Irene might some day do well to visit with the object of retreat and prayer, she caught at the idea. On the following day, strictly forbidding the porter at the _pension_ to disclose her new address to _anyone_, and without saying good-bye to Gzhatski, she left Rome. IX On her arrival at Assisi, Irene immediately felt a little calmer than she had done in Rome. She had often noticed that when staying in mountainous districts her nerves grew quieter, and she felt, for the time being, less depressed. She loved the scent of the fresh mountain air, and it seemed to her, under its influence, as though, after all, life might still have in store for her many happy hours. An old doctor who had once treated her in Paris had called her in fun “la femme des montagnes”—perhaps, indeed, she should have lived always at high altitudes. Assisi, in addition, was a delightful place. From the hills among which the little town with its famous monastery nestled, there was a glorious view over an immense plain, dotted with houses, churches, gardens, and villages. In the distance rose the peaks of the Apennines.