the wooden clapper announced the recreation hour. The
recreation-ground was a sandy yard, in which stood eight plane-trees,
which in summer cast cool shadows around. On the south side rose a wall,
seventeen feet high, and bristling with broken glass, above which all
that one saw of Plassans was the steeple of St. Mark, rising like a
stony needle against the blue sky. To and fro he slowly paced the court
with a row of fellow-students; and each time he faced the wall he eyed
that spire which to him represented the whole town, the whole
earth spread beneath the scudding clouds. Noisy groups waxed hot in
disputation round the plane-trees; friends would pair off in the
corners under the spying glance of some director concealed behind his
window-blind. Tennis and skittle matches would be quickly organised to
the great discomfort of quiet loto players who lounged on the ground
before their cardboard squares, which some bowl or ball would suddenly
smother with sand. But when the bell sounded the noise ceased, a flight
of sparrows rose from the plane-trees, and the breathless students
betook themselves to their lesson in plain-chant with folded arms and
hanging heads. And thus Serge's day closed in peacefulness; he returned
to his work; then, at four o'clock, he partook of his afternoon snack,
and renewed his everlasting walk in sight of St. Mark's spire. Supper
was marked by the same rattling of jaws and the same droning perusal as
the midday meal. And when it was over Serge repaired to the chapel to
attend prayers, and finally betook himself to bed at a quarter past
eight, after first sprinkling his pallet with holy water to ward off all
evil dreams.

How many delightful days like these had he not spent in that ancient
convent of old Plassans, where abode the aroma of centuries of piety!
For five years had the days followed one another, flowing on with the
unvarying murmur of limpid water. In this present hour he recalled a
thousand little incidents which moved him. He remembered going with his
mother to purchase his first outfit, his two cassocks, his two waist
sashes, his half-dozen bands, his eight pairs of socks, his surplice,
and his three-cornered hat. And how his heart had beaten that mild
October evening when the seminary door had first closed behind him!
He had gone thither at twenty, after his school years, seized with a
yearning to believe and love. The very next day he had forgotten all,
as if he had fallen into a