It was a slow "plain chant." Into the great arches the sonorous
chanting beat upon the ear with a rhythmic perfection that, even
without the lovely flavor of its sweetness, would have made a beauty of
its own. In this still and holy place, with the company of the stately
Norman arches soaring aloft--beneath the sombre glory of the giant
aisle--the austere simplicity of this chant made the heart beat, one
knew not why, and the eyes moisten, one also knew not why.

We had followed the voices. They came, we found, from within the choir.
A pattering of steps proclaimed we were to go no farther.

"Not there, my ladies--step this way, one only enters the choir by
going into the hospital."

The voice was low and sweet; the smile, a spark of divinity set in a
woman's face; and the whole was clothed in a nun's garb.

We followed the fluttering robes; we passed out once more into the
sunlit parvis. We spoke to the smile and it answered: yes, the choir
was reserved for the Sisters--they must be able to approach it from the
convent and the hospital; it had always, since the time of Mathilde,
been reserved for the nuns; would we pass this way? The way took us
into an open vaulted passage, past a grating where sat a white-capped
Sister, past a group of girls and boys carrying wreaths and
garlands--they were making ready for the _Fete-Dieu_, our nun
explained--past, at the last, a series of corridors through which,
faintly at first, and then sweeter and fuller, there struck once more
upon our ears the sounds of the deep and resonant chanting.