The care lavished upon him produced no result, since every day he passed long hours in weeping--tears of penitence, he said, but also of regret.[14] Ah, how different they were from those tears of his moments of inspiration and emotion, which had flowed over a countenance all illumined with joy! They had seen him, in such moments, take up two bits of wood, and, accompanying himself with this rustic violin, improvise French songs in which he would pour out the abundance of his heart.[15] But the radiance of genius and hope had become dimmed.

Rachel weeps for her children, and will not be comforted because they are not.

There are in the tears of Francis this same _quia non sunt_ for his spiritual sons.
But if there are irremediable pains there are none which may not be at once elevated and softened, when we endure them at the side of those who love us.
In this respect his companions could not be of much help to him.

Moral consolations are possible only from our peers, or when two hearts are united by a mystical passion so great that they mingle and understand one another.
"Ah, if the Brothers knew what I suffer," St.Francis said a few days before the impression of the stigmata, "with what pity and compassion they would be moved!" But they, seeing him who had laid cheerfulness upon them as a duty becoming more and more sad and keeping aloof from them, imagined that he was tortured with temptations of the devil.[16] Clara divined that which could not be uttered.

At St.Damian her friend was looking back over all the past: what memories lived again in a single glance! Here, the olive-tree to which, a brilliant cavalier, he had fastened his horse; there, the stone bench where his friend, the priest of the poor chapel, used to sit; yonder, the hiding-place in which he had taken refuge from the paternal wrath, and, above all, the sanctuary with the mysterious crucifix of the decisive hour.
In living over these pictures of the radiant past, Francis aggravated his pain; yet they spoke to him of other things than death and regret.
Clara was there, as steadfast, as ardent as ever.