I thought these exercises would bring me a certain relief, but they
did not.
I searched my Missal for words that applied to my sinful state, and
every night on going to bed I prayed to God to take from me all unholy
thoughts, all earthly affections. But what was the use of my prayers
when in the first dream of the first sleep I was rushing into Martin's
arms?
It was true that my love for Martin was what the world would call a pure
love; it had no alloy of any kind; but all the same I thought I was
living in a condition of adultery--adultery of the heart.
Early every morning I went to mass, but the sense I used to have of
returning from the divine sacrifice to the ordinary occupations of life
with a new spirit and a clean heart I could feel no longer.
I went oftener to confession than I had done before--twice a week to
begin with, then every other day, then every day. But the old joy, the
sense of purity and cleansing, did not come. I thought at first the
fault might be with my Confessor, for though I knew I was in the
presence of God, the whispering voice behind the grating, which used to
thrill me with a feeling of the supernatural, was that of a young man,
and I asked myself what a young priest could know by experience of the
deep temptations of human love.
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