"The Abbe will certainly not turn out in such weather." He went into his study; this was his usual place of refuge.

He had his divan there, his pictures, the old furniture he had brought from Paris; and against the walls, shelves, painted black, held thousands of books.
There he lived, looking out on the towers, hearing nothing but the cawing of the rooks and the strokes of the hours as they fell one by one on the silence of the deserted square.

He had placed his table in front of a window, and there he sat dreaming, praying, meditating, making notes.
The balance of his personal account was struck by internal damage and mental disputations; if the soul was bruised and ice-bound, the mind was no less afflicted, no less fagged.

It seemed to have grown dull since his residence at Chartres.

The biographies of Saints which Durtal had intended to write, remained in the stage of charcoal sketches; they blew off before he could fix them.