On the semicircle of hills, when there
was little distance-mist, I saw the ruins of some seigneurial chateau,
for the seigneurs, too, knew where to build; and to my left, between a
clump of oaks and an avenue of poplars, the bell-tower of the
village--church of Saint Martial d'Artenset--a very ancient type of
tower, I believe, and common in France, rather ponderous, consisting of
a square mass with a smaller square mass stuck on, the latter having
large Gothic windows; and behind me the west face of the
monastery-church, over the door being the statue of Saint Bruno.
Well, one morning after four months, I opened my eyes in my cell to the
piercing consciousness that I had burned Monpont over-night: and so
overcome was I with regret for this poor inoffensive little place, that
for two days, hardly eating, I paced between the oak and walnut pews of
the nave, massive stalls they are, separated by grooved Corinthian
pilasters, wondering what was to become of me, and if I was not already
mad; and there are some little angels with extraordinarily human
Greuze-like faces, supporting the nerves of the apse, which, after a
time, every time I passed them, seemed conscious of me and my existence
there; and the wood-work which ornaments the length of the nave, and of
the choir also, elaborate with carved marguerites and roses, here and
there took in my eyes significant forms from certain points of view; and
there is a partition--for the nave is divided into two chapels, one for
the brothers and one for the fathers, I conclude--and in this partition
a massive door, which yet looks quite light and graceful, carved with
oak and acanthus leaves, and every time I passed through I had the
impression that the door was a sentient thing, subconscious of me; and
the delicate Italian-Renaissance brick vault which springs from the vast
nave seemed to look upon me with a gloomy knowledge of me, and of the
heart within me; and at about four in the afternoon of the second day,
after pacing the church for hours, I fell down at one of the two altars
near that carved door of the screen, praying God to have mercy upon my
soul; and in the very midst of my praying, I was up and away, the devil
in me, and I got into the motor, and did not come back to Vauclaire for
another month, and came leaving great tracts of burned desolation behind
me, towns and forests, Bordeaux burned, Lebourne burned, Bergerac
burned.
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