“Envy no one, our friend,” said she, “for each has his own struggles and griefs.”

And when he had parted from her, Durtal, as he went home, thought of the disasters she had confessed, the cessation of her intercourse with Heaven, the fall of a soul that had been wont to soar above the clouds.  How she must suffer!

“No, no,” he said, “the service of the Lord is not all roses.  If we study the lives of the Saints we see these Elect tormented by dreadful maladies, and the most painful trials.  No, holiness on earth is no child’s play, life is not amusement.  To Saints, indeed, even on earth excessive suffering finds compensation in excessive joys; but to other Christians, such small fry as we are, what distress and trouble!  We question the everlasting silence and none answers; we wait and none comes.  In vain do we proclaim Him as Illimitable, Incomprehensible, Unthinkable, and confess that every effort of our reason is vain, we cannot cease to wonder, and still less cease to suffer!  And yet—­and yet if we consider, the darkness about us is not absolutely impenetrable, there is light in places and we can discern some truths, such as this: 

“God treats us as He treats plants.  He is, in a certain sense, the soul’s year; but a year in which the order of the seasons is reversed; for the spiritual seasons begin with spring, followed by winter, and then autumn comes, followed by summer.

“The moment of conversion is the spring, the soul is joyful and Christ sows the good seed; then comes the cold and all is dark, the terror-stricken soul believes itself forsaken and bewails itself; but without its feeling it during the trials of the purgatorial life, the seed germinates in the contemplative peace of autumn and flourishes in the summer life of Union.

“Aye; but each one must be the helping gardener of his own soul, listening to the instructions of the Master who plans the task and directs the work.  Alas, we are no more the humble labourers of the Middle Ages, who toiled, giving God thanks, who submitted without discussion to the Master’s orders.  We, by our little faith, have exhausted the value of prayer, the panacea of aspirations; consequently many things seem to us unjust and cruel, and we rebel, we ask for pledges; we hesitate to begin our task, we want to be paid in advance, and our distrust makes us vile!—­O Lord, give us grace to pray, and never dream of demanding an earnest of Thy favours!  Give us grace to obey and be silent!

“And I may add,” said Durtal to himself as he smiled on Madame Mesurat, who opened the door in answer to his ring, “Grant me, Lord, the grace not to be too much irritated by the buzzing of this great fly, the inexhaustible flow of this good woman’s tongue!”

CHAPTER XIV.

“What a fearful muddle, what a sea of ink is this menagerie of good and evil emblems!” exclaimed Durtal, laying down his pen.