he hour which Mrs. Tristram had indicated, he
rang at the gate in the blank wall. It instantly opened and admitted
him into a clean, cold-looking court, from beyond which a dull, plain
edifice looked down upon him. A robust lay sister with a cheerful
complexion emerged from a porter's lodge, and, on his stating his
errand, pointed to the open door of the chapel, an edifice which
occupied the right side of the court and was preceded by the high flight
of steps. Newman ascended the steps and immediately entered the open
door. Service had not yet begun; the place was dimly lighted, and it was
some moments before he could distinguish its features. Then he saw it
was divided by a large close iron screen into two unequal portions.
The altar was on the hither side of the screen, and between it and the
entrance were disposed several benches and chairs. Three or four of
these were occupied by vague, motionless figures--figures that he
presently perceived to be women, deeply absorbed in their devotion. The
place seemed to Newman very cold; the smell of the incense itself was
cold. Besides this there was a twinkle of tapers and here and there a
glow of colored glass. Newman seated himself; the praying women kept
still, with their backs turned. He saw they were visitors like himself
and he would have liked to see their faces; for he believed that they
were the mourning mothers and sisters of other women who had had the
same pitiless courage as Madame de Cintre. But they were better off
than he, for they at least shared the faith to which the others had
sacrificed themselves. Three or four persons came in; two of them were
elderly gentlemen. Every one was very quiet. Newman fastened his
eyes upon the screen behind the altar. That was the convent, the real
convent, the place where she was. But he could see nothing; no light
came through the crevices. He got up and approached the partition very
gently, trying to look through. But behind it there was darkness, with
nothing stirring. He went back to his place, and after that a priest
and two altar boys came in and began to say mass. Newman watched their
genuflections and gyrations with a grim, still enmity; they seemed aids
and abettors of Madame de Cintre's desertion; they were mouthing and
droning out their triumph. The priest's long, dismal intonings acted
upon his nerves and deepened his wrath; there was something defiant in
his unintelligible drawl; it seemed meant for Newman himself