Fortune had as many faces as Notre Dame has gargoyles.

To bring the Comte d'Herouville, himself, and the Chevalier du Cevennes together on a voyage of hazard! He looked around to discover the whereabouts of the count.

He saw him leaning against a mast, his face calm, his manner easy.
"There is danger in that calm; I must walk with care.

My faith! but the Chevalier will have his hands full one of these days." Mass was celebrated, and a strange, rude picture was presented to those eyes accustomed to the interior of lofty cathedrals: the smoky lanterns, the squat ceiling, the tawdry woodwork, the kneeling figures involuntarily jostling one another to the rolling of the ship, the resonant voice of Father Chaumonot, the frequent glitter of a breast-plate, a sword-hilt, or a helmet.
The Chevalier knelt, not because he was in sympathy with Chaumonot's Latin, but because he desired not to be conspicuous.

God was not in his heart save in a shadowy way; rather an infinite weariness, a sense of drifting blindly, a knowledge of a vague and futile grasping at the end of things.