elves on this
basilica, which, perched on high, had for centuries defied their
efforts. To uproot it the lightning had been needed to help, firing its
towers, and even the combined attacks of the hurricane and the flames
had been unable to destroy the original stock, which, replanted after
each disaster, had always sprouted in fresh verdure with reinvigorated
growth.

That morning, in the dawn of a rainy autumn day, lashed by a bitter
north wind, Durtal, shivering and ill at ease, left the terrace and took
refuge in the more sheltered walks, going down presently into a
garden-slope where the brushwood afforded some little protection from
the wind; these shrubberies wandered at random down the hill, and an
inextricable tangle of blackberries clung with the cat's-claws of their
long shoots to the saplings that were scattered about.

It was evident that since some immemorial time the Bishops, for lack of
funds, had neglected these grounds. Of all the old kitchen garden,
overgrown by brambles, only one plot was more or less weeded, and rows
of spinach and carrots alternated with the frosted balls of cabbages.

Durtal sat down on a stump that had once supported a bench, and tried to
look into his own soul; but he found within, look where he might, only a
spiritual Beauce; it seemed to him to mirror the cold and monotonous
landscape; only it was not a mighty wind that blew through his being;
but a sharp, drying little blast. He knew that he was cross-grained and
could not make his observations calmly; his conscience harassed him and
insisted on vexatious argument.

"Pride! Ah, how is it to be kept under till the day shall come when it
shall be quelled? It insinuates itself so stealthily, so noiselessly,
that it has ensnared and bound me before I can suspect its presence; and
my case too is somewhat peculiar, and hard to cure by the religious
treatment commonly prescribed in such cases. For in fact," said he to
himself, "my pride is not of the artless and overweening kind, elated,
audacious, boldly displaying, and proclaiming itself to the world; no,
mine is in a latent state, what was called vain-glory in the simplicity
of the Middle Ages, an essence of pride diluted with vanity and
evaporating within me in transient thoughts and unexpressed conceit. I
have not even the opportunity afforded by swaggering pride for being on
my guard and compelling myself to keep silence. Yes, that is very true;
talk leads to specious boast