ay and
silent. Suddenly, from the thought of their seeing him stand there,
again the charm utterly departed. He would never stand there again; it
was gratuitous dreariness. He turned away with a heavy heart, but with
a heart lighter than the one he had brought. Everything was over, and he
too at last could rest. He walked down through narrow, winding streets
to the edge of the Seine again, and there he saw, close above him, the
soft, vast towers of Notre Dame. He crossed one of the bridges and stood
a moment in the empty place before the great cathedral; then he went
in beneath the grossly-imaged portals. He wandered some distance up the
nave and sat down in the splendid dimness. He sat a long time; he heard
far-away bells chiming off, at long intervals, to the rest of the world.
He was very tired; this was the best place he could be in. He said no
prayers; he had no prayers to say. He had nothing to be thankful for,
and he had nothing to ask; nothing to ask, because now he must take care
of himself. But a great cathedral offers a very various hospitality, and
Newman sat in his place, because while he was there he was out of the
world. The most unpleasant thing that had ever happened to him had
reached its formal conclusion, as it were; he could close the book and
put it away. He leaned his head for a long time on the chair in front of
him; when he took it up he felt that he was himself again. Somewhere
in his mind, a tight knot seemed to have loosened. He thought of the
Bellegardes; he had almost forgotten them. He remembered them as people
he had meant to do something to. He gave a groan as he remembered what
he had meant to do; he was annoyed at having meant to do it; the bottom,
suddenly, had fallen out of his revenge. Whether it was Christian
charity or unregenerate good nature--what it was, in the background of
his soul--I don't pretend to say; but Newman's last thought was that
of course he would let the Bellegardes go. If he had spoken it aloud
he would have said that he didn't want to hurt them. He was ashamed
of having wanted to hurt them. They had hurt him, but such things were
really not his game. At last he got up and came out of the darkening
church; not with the elastic step of a man who had won a victory or
taken a resolve, but strolling soberly, like a good-natured man who is
still a little ashamed.

Going home, he said to Mrs. Bread that he must trouble her to put back
his things into the portmanteau s