“‘Yes; I will serve you.’
“Francois, always waited on the guests, but that day—mindful of the selfishness of my thoughts in the garden—I resolved to add to my duties. I therefore brought the soup, the lentils, the omelette, the oranges, poured out the wine, and urged the young man cordially to eat. When I did so he looked up at me. His eyes were extraordinarily expressive. It was as if I heard them say to me, ‘Why, I like you!’ and as if, just for a moment, his grief were lessened.
“In the empty parlour, long, clean, bare, with a crucifix on the wall and the name ‘Saint Bernard’ above the door, it was very quiet, very shady. The outer blinds of green wood were drawn over the window-spaces, shutting out the gold of the garden. But its murmuring tranquillity seemed to filter in, as if the flowers, the insects, the birds were aware of our presence and were trying to say to us, ‘Are you happy as we are? Be happy as we are.’
“The stranger looked at the shady room, the open windows. He sighed.
“‘How quiet it is here!’ he said, almost as if to himself. ‘How quiet it is!’
“‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘Summer is beginning. For months now scarcely anyone will come to us here.’
“‘Us?’ he said, glancing at me with a sudden smile.
“‘I meant to us who are monks, who live always here.’
“‘May I—is it indiscreet to ask if you have been here long?’
“I told him.