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his example, and knelt near him in order to keep countenance.

Father Massias meanwhile was gradually becoming excited, praying in so

loud a voice that it drowned that of his superior, Father Fourcade:

"Lord, restore our brother to us!" he cried. "Lord, do it for Thy glory!"

One of the hospitallers had already begun to pull at the man's trousers,

but his legs were so stiff that the garment would not come off. In fact

the corpse ought to have been raised up; and the other hospitaller, who

was unbuttoning the dead man's old frock coat, remarked in an undertone

that it would be best to cut everything away with a pair of scissors.

Otherwise there would be no end of the job.

Berthaud, however, rushed up to them, after rapidly consulting Baron

Suire. As a politician he secretly disapproved of Father Fourcade's

action in making such an attempt, only they could not now do otherwise

than carry matters to an issue; for the crowd was waiting and had been

entreating God on the dead man's behalf ever since the morning. The

wisest course, therefore, was to finish with the affair at once, showing

as much respect as possible for the remains of the deceased. In lieu,

therefore, of pulling the corpse about in order to strip it bare,

Berthaud was of opinion that it would be better to dip it in the piscina

clad as it was. Should the man resuscitate, it would be easy to procure

fresh clothes for him; and in the contrary event, no harm would have been

done. This is what he hastily said to the bearers; and forthwith he

helped them to pass some straps under the man's hips and arms.

Father Fourcade had nodded his approval of this course, whilst Father

Massias prayed with increased fervour: "Breathe upon him, O Lord, and he

shall be born anew! Restore his soul to him, O, Lord, that he may glorify

Thee!"

Making an effort, the two hospitallers now raised the man by means of the

straps, carried him to the bath, and slowly lowered him into the water,

at each moment fearing that he would slip away from their hold. Pierre,

although overcome by horror, could not do otherwise than look at them,

and thus he distinctly beheld the immersion of this corpse in its sorry

garments, which on being wetted clung to the bones, outlining the

skeleton-like figure of the deceased, who floated like a man who has been

drowned. But the repulsive part of it all was, that in spite of the

_rigor mortis_, the head fell backward into the water, and was submerged

by it. In vain did the hospitallers try to raise it by pulling the

shoulder straps; as they made the attempt, the man almost sank to the

bottom of the bath. And how could he have recovered his breath when his

mouth was full of water, his staring eyes seemingly dying afresh, beneath

that watery veil?

Then, during the three long minutes allowed for the immersion, the two

Fathers of the Assumption and the chaplain, in a paroxysm of desire and

faith, strove to compel the intervention of Heaven, praying in such loud

voices that they seemed to choke.

"Do Thou but look on him, O Lord, and he will live again! Lord! may he

rise at Thy voice to convert the earth! Lord! Thou hast but one word to

say and all Thy people will acclaim Thee!"

At last, as though some vessel had broken in his throat, Father Massias

fell groaning and choking on his elbows, with only enough strength left

him to kiss the flagstones. And from without came the clamour of the

crowd, the ever-repeated cry, which the Capuchin was still leading:

"Lord, heal our sick! Lord, heal our sick!" This appeal seemed so

singular at that moment, that Pierre's sufferings were increased. He

could feel, too, that the Marquis was shuddering beside him. And so the

relief was general when Berthaud, thoroughly annoyed with the whole

business, curtly shouted to the hospitallers: "Take him out! Take him out

at once!"

The body was removed from the bath and laid on the stretcher, looking

like the corpse of a drowned man with its sorry garments clinging to its

limbs. The water was trickling from the hair, and rivulets began falling

on either side, spreading out in pools on the floor. And naturally, dead

as the man had been, dead he remained.

The others had all risen and stood looking at him amidst a distressing

silence. Then, as he was covered up and carried away, Father Fourcade

followed the bier leaning on the shoulder of Father Massias and dragging

his gouty leg, the painful weight of which he had momentarily forgotten.

But he was already recovering his strong serenity, and as a hush fell

upon the crowd outside, he could be heard saying: "My dear brothers, my

dear sisters, God has not been willing to restore him to us, doubtless

because in His infinite goodness He has desired to retain him among His

elect."

And that was all; there was no further question of the dead man. Patients

were again being brought into the dressing-room, the two other baths were

already occupied. And now little Gustave, who had watched that terrible

scene with his keen inquisitive eyes, evincing no sign of terror,

finished undressing himself. His wretched body, the body of a scrofulous

child, appeared with its prominent ribs and projecting spine, its limbs

so thin that they looked like mere walking-sticks. Especially was this

the case as regards the left one, which was withered, wasted to the bone;

and he also had two sores, one on the hip, and the other in the loins,

the last a terrible one, the skin being eaten away so that you distinctly

saw the raw flesh. Yet he smiled, rendered so precocious by his

sufferings that, although but fifteen years old and looking no more than

ten, he seemed to be endowed with the reason and philosophy of a grown

man.

The Marquis de Salmon-Roquebert, who had taken him gently in his arms,

refused Pierre's offer of service: "Thanks, but he weighs no more than a

bird. And don't be frightened, my dear little fellow. I will do it

gently."

"Oh, I am not afraid of cold water, monsieur," replied the boy; "you may

duck me."

Then he was lowered into the bath in which the dead man had been dipped.

Madame Vigneron and Madame Chaise, who were not allowed to enter, had

remained at the door on their knees, whilst the father, M. Vigneron, who

was admitted into the dressing-room, went on making the sign of the

cross.

Finding that his services were no longer required, Pierre now departed.

The sudden idea that three o'clock must have long since struck and that

Marie must be waiting for him made him hasten his steps. However, whilst

he was endeavouring to pierce the crowd, he saw the girl arrive in her

little conveyance, dragged along by Gerard, who had not ceased

transporting sufferers to the piscina. She had become impatient, suddenly

filled with a conviction that she was at last in a frame of mind to find

grace. And at sight of Pierre she reproached him, saying, "What, my

friend, did you forget me?"

He could find no answer, but watched her as she was taken into the

piscina reserved for women, and then, in mortal sorrow, fell upon his

knees. It was there that he would wait for her, humbly kneeling, in order

that he might take her back to the Grotto, cured without doubt and

singing a hymn of praise. Since she was certain of it, would she not

assuredly be cured? However, it was in vain that he sought for words of

prayer in the depths of his distracted being. He was still under the blow

of all the terrible things that he had beheld, worn out with physical

fatigue, his brain depressed, no longer knowing what he saw or what he

believed. His desperate affection for Marie alone remained, making him

long to humble himself and supplicate, in the thought that when little

ones really love and entreat the powerful they end by obtaining favours.

And at last he caught himself repeating the prayers of the crowd, in a

distressful voice that came from the depths of his being "Lord, heal our

sick! Lord, heal our sick!"

Ten minutes, a quarter of an hour perhaps, went by. Then Marie reappeared

in her little conveyance. Her face was very pale and wore an expression

of despair. Her beautiful hair was fastened above her head in a heavy

golden coil which the water had not touched. And she was not cured. The

stupor of infinite discouragement hollowed and lengthened her face, and

she averted her eyes as though to avoid meeting those of the priest who

thunderstruck, chilled to the heart, at last made up his mind to grasp

the handle of the little vehicle, so as to take the girl back to the

Grotto.

And meantime the cry of the faithful, who with open arms were kneeling

there and kissing the earth, again rose with a growing fury, excited by

the Capuchin's shrill voice: "Lord, heal our sick! Heal our sick, O

Lord!"

As Pierre was placing Marie in position again in front of the Grotto, an

attack of weakness came over her and she almost fainted. Gerard, who was

there, saw Raymonde quickly hurry to the spot with a cup of broth, and at

once they began zealously rivalling each other in their attentions to the

ailing girl. Raymonde, holding out the cup in a pretty way, and assuming

the coaxing airs of an expert nurse, especially insisted that Marie

should accept the bouillon; and Gerard, glancing at this portionless

girl, could not help finding her charming, already expert in the business

of life, and quite ready to manage a household with a firm hand without

ceasing to be amiable. Berthaud was no doubt right, this was the wife

that he, Gerard, needed.

"Mademoiselle," said he to Raymonde, "shall I raise the young lady a

little?"

"Thank you, monsieur, I am quite strong enough. And besides I will give

it to her in spoonfuls; that will be the better way."

Marie, however, obstinately preserving her fierce silence as she

recovered consciousness, refused the broth with a gesture. She wished to

be left in quietness, she did not want anybody to question her. And it

was only when the others had gone off smiling at one another, that she

said to Pierre in a husky voice: "Has not my father come then?"

After hesitating for a moment the priest was obliged to confess the

truth. "I left him sleeping and he cannot have woke up."

Then Marie relapsed into her state of languid stupor and dismissed him in

his turn, with the gesture with which she declined all succour. She no

longer prayed, but remained quite motionless, gazing fixedly with her

large eyes at the marble Virgin, the white statue amidst the radiance of

the Grotto. And as four o'clock was now striking, Pierre with his heart

sore went off to the Verification Office, having suddenly remembered the

appointment given him by Doctor Chassaigne.

IV. VERIFICATION

THE doctor was waiting for the young priest outside the Verification

Office, in front of which a compact and feverish crowd of pilgrims was

assembled, waylaying and questioning the patients who went in, and

acclaiming them as they came out whenever the news spread of any miracle,

such as the restoration of some blind man's sight, some deaf woman's

hearing, or some paralytic's power of motion.

Pierre had no little difficulty in making his way through the throng, but

at last he reached his friend. "Well," he asked, "are we going to have a

miracle--a real, incontestable one I mean?"

The doctor smiled, indulgent despite his new faith. "Ah, well," said he,

"a miracle is not worked to order. God intervenes when He pleases."

Some hospitallers were mounting guard at the door, but they all knew M.

Chassaigne, and respectfully drew aside to let him enter with his

companion. The office where the cures were verified was very badly

installed in a wretched wooden shanty divided into two apartments, first

a narrow ante-chamber, and then a general meeting room which was by no

means so large as it should have been. However, there was a question of

providing the department with better accommodation the following year;

with which view some large premises, under one of the inclined ways of

the Rosary, were already being fitted up.

The only article of furniture in the antechamber was a wooden bench on

which Pierre perceived two female patients awaiting their turn in the

charge of a young hospitaller. But on entering the meeting room the

number of persons packed inside it quite surprised him, whilst the

suffocating heat within those wooden walls on which the sun was so

fiercely playing, almost scorched his face. It was a square bare room,

painted a light yellow, with the panes of its single window covered with

whitening, so that the pressing throng outside might see nothing of what

went on within. One dared not even open this window to admit a little

fresh air, for it was no sooner set ajar than a crowd of inquisitive

heads peeped in. The furniture was of a very rudimentary kind, consisting

simply of two deal tables of unequal height placed end to end and not

even covered with a cloth; together with a kind of big "canterbury"

littered with untidy papers, sets of documents, registers and pamphlets,

and finally some thirty rush-seated chairs placed here and there over the

floor and a couple of ragged arm-chairs usually reserved for the

patients.

Doctor Bonamy at once hastened forward to greet Doctor Chassaigne, who

was one of the latest and most glorious conquests of the Grotto. He found

a chair for him and, bowing to Pierre's cassock, also made the young

priest sit down. Then, in the tone of extreme politeness which was

customary with him, he exclaimed: "_Mon cher confrere_, you will kindly

allow me to continue. We were just examining mademoiselle."

He referred to a deaf peasant girl of twenty, who was seated in one of

the arm-chairs. Instead of listening, however, Pierre, who was very

weary, still with a buzzing in his head, contented himself with gazing at

the scene, endeavouring to form some notion of the people assembled in

the room. There were some fifty altogether, many of them standing and