ecration to the
Sacred Heart in the Basilica of Montmartre.[8] Each compartment of
the train was named after a Saint, and the selection was made in
honour of some Priest occupying it--his own patron or that of his
parish being chosen. But in the presence of all the pilgrims our
compartment was named after St. Martin! My Father, deeply touched
by this compliment, went at once to thank Mgr. Legoux,
Vicar-General of Coutances and director of the pilgrimage. From
this onwards he was often called "Monsieur Saint Martin."

Father Reverony watched my behaviour closely. I could tell that he
was doing so; at table, if I were not opposite to him, he would
lean forward to look at me and listen to what I was saying. I
think he must have been satisfied with his investigations, for,
towards the end of the journey, he seemed more favourably
disposed. I say towards the end, for in Rome he was far from being
my advocate, as I will tell you presently. Still I would not have
it thought he deceived me in any way by falling short of the good
will he had shown at Bayeux. On the contrary, I am sure that he
always felt kindly towards me, and that if he opposed my wishes it
was only to put me to the test.

On our way into Italy we passed through Switzerland, with its high
mountains, their snowy peaks lost in the clouds, its rushing
torrents, and its deep valleys filled with giant ferns and purple
heather. Great good was wrought in my soul by these beauties of
nature so abundantly scattered abroad. They lifted it to Him Who
had been pleased to lavish such masterpieces upon this transient
earth.

Sometimes we were high up the mountain side, while at our feet an
unfathomable abyss seemed ready to engulf us. A little later we
were passing through a charming village with its cottages and
graceful belfry, above which light fleecy clouds floated lazily.
Farther on a great lake with its blue waters, so calm and clear,
would blend with the glowing splendour of the setting sun. I
cannot tell you how deeply I was impressed with this scenery so
full of poetry and grandeur. It was a foretaste of the wonders of
Heaven. Then the thought of religious life would come before me,
as it really is, with its constraints and its little daily
sacrifices made in secret. I understood how easily one might
become wrapped in self and forget the sublime end of one's
vocation, and I thought: "Later on, when the time of trial comes,
when I am enclosed in the Carmel and