He was frenzied, he reasoned with the old mad arguments, and cried out
at his wits' end,--

"La Trappe crushed me! It cured me of sensuality, but only to load me
with disorders of which I knew nothing before I submitted to that
treatment! It is humble itself, but it puffed up my vanity and increased
my pride tenfold--then it set me free, but so weak, so wearied, that I
have never since been able to conquer that inanition, never have been
fit to enjoy the Mystical Nourishment which I nevertheless must have if
I am not to die to God!"

And for the hundredth time he asked himself,--

"Am I happier than I was before I was converted?"

And to be truthful to himself he was bound to answer "Yes." He lived on
the whole a Christian life, prayed but badly, but at any rate prayed
without ceasing; only--only--Alas! How worm-eaten, how arid were the
poor recesses of his soul! He wondered, with anguish, whether they would
not end like the Manor in Edgar Poe's tale, by crumbling suddenly, one
fatal day, into the dark waters of the pool of sin which was undermining
the walls.

Having reached this stage of his round of meditations, he was compelled
to throw himself on the Abbé Gévresin, who required him, in spite of his
coldness, to take the Communion. Since his return from Notre Dame de
l'Atre his friendship with the Abbé had become much closer, altogether
intimate.