. Suddenly
there arose from the depths of the chapel, from behind the inexorable
grating, a sound which drew his attention from the altar--the sound of
a strange, lugubrious chant, uttered by women's voices. It began softly,
but it presently grew louder, and as it increased it became more of a
wail and a dirge. It was the chant of the Carmelite nuns, their only
human utterance. It was their dirge over their buried affections
and over the vanity of earthly desires. At first Newman was
bewildered--almost stunned--by the strangeness of the sound; then, as
he comprehended its meaning, he listened intently and his heart began to
throb. He listened for Madame de Cintre's voice, and in the very heart
of the tuneless harmony he imagined he made it out. (We are obliged to
believe that he was wrong, inasmuch as she had obviously not yet had
time to become a member of the invisible sisterhood.) The chant kept
on, mechanical and monotonous, with dismal repetitions and despairing
cadences. It was hideous, it was horrible; as it continued, Newman felt
that he needed all his self-control. He was growing more agitated; he
felt tears in his eyes. At last, as in its full force the thought came
over him that this confused, impersonal wail was all that either he or
the world she had deserted should ever hear of the voice he had found
so sweet, he felt that he could bear it no longer. He rose abruptly
and made his way out. On the threshold he paused, listened again to the
dreary strain, and then hastily descended into the court. As he did
so he saw the good sister with the high-colored cheeks and the fanlike
frill to her coiffure, who had admitted him, was in conference at the
gate with two persons who had just come in. A second glance informed him
that these persons were Madame de Bellegarde and her son, and that they
were about to avail themselves of that method of approach to Madame
de Cintre which Newman had found but a mockery of consolation. As he
crossed the court M. de Bellegarde recognized him; the marquis was
coming to the steps, leading his mother. The old lady also gave Newman
a look, and it resembled that of her son. Both faces expressed a franker
perturbation, something more akin to the humbleness of dismay, than
Newman had yet seen in them. Evidently he startled the Bellegardes, and
they had not their grand behavior immediately in hand. Newman hurried
past them, guided only by the desire to get out of the convent walls and
int