This discussion had been of use to Durtal; it took him out of the generalities over which he had persistently mused since his arrival at Chartres.

The Abbe had, in fact, shown him his bearings, and pointed out a navigable channel leading to a definite end, a haven familiar to all.
The monastery which had lingered in Durtal's fancy as a mere confused picture, apart from time, without place or date, deriving nothing from his memories of La Trappe but the sense of discipline, and on to which he had at once engrafted the fancy of an abbey of a more literary and artistic stamp, governed by a conciliatory rule, in a milder atmosphere--that ideal retreat, half borrowed from reality and half the fabric of a dream--was taking shape.

By speaking of an Order that existed, mentioning it by name and actually specifying a House under its rule, the Abbe had given Durtal substantial food instead of the argumentative wordiness of a mania; he had afforded him something better to chew than the empty air on which he had fed so long.
The state of uncertainty and indecision he had been living in was at end; his choice now lay between remaining at Chartres or retiring to Solesmes; and at once, without delay, he set to work to read and reconsider the works of Saint Benedict.
This rule, summed up more particularly in a series of paternal injunctions and affectionate advice, was a marvel of gentleness and tactfulness.

Every craving of the soul was described, every misery of the body foreseen.

It knew so precisely how to ask much and yet not to exact too much, that it had yielded without breaking, satisfied the movements of different ages, and remained, in the nineteenth century what it had been in mediaeval times.
Then how merciful, how wise it was when addressing itself to the feeble and infirm.