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chapel. Somewhat farther on one sees high
walls with numerous little barred windows,
which remind one of a convent. Still farther
away are old, half-hidden houses crowned by a
forest of chimneys, and in the extreme distance
one sees the tower of Notre-Dame des Champs
surmounted by a cross and weathercock. In my
room there hangs a faded likeness of St. Vincent
de Paul, and a picture of St. Peter looks down
on my bed. St. Peter, the opener of the gates
of heaven. What an ironical situation for me,
who some years ago threw ridicule on the Apostle
in a fantastic drama!
Quite contented with my room, I sleep well
the first night. I edify myself by reading the
book of Job, and arrive at an ever clearer
conviction that the Eternal has handed me over to
Satan to be tried. This thought comforts me
again, and suffering seems to me a mark of
confidence on the part of the Almighty.
Now things begin to happen which cannot be
explained without the co-operation of the
unknown powers. From this point I use the
entries in my journal, which have gradually
become very numerous, giving them in a
condensed form.
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