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turn, he embraced her.

"I, too, Marie," said he, "am pleased, very pleased, I assure you." And

then, overcome by emotion, his courage exhausted, whilst at the same time

filled with delight and bitterness, he burst into sobs, weeping with his

face buried in his hands, like a child seeking to hide its tears.

"Come, come, we must not give way," said Sister Hyacinthe, gaily.

"Monsieur l'Abbe would feel too proud if he fancied that we had merely

come on his account. M. de Guersaint is about, isn't he?"

Marie raised a cry of deep affection. "Ah! my dear father! After all,

it's he who'll be most pleased!"

Thereupon Pierre had to relate that M. de Guersaint had not returned from

his excursion to Gavarnie. His increasing anxiety showed itself while he

spoke, although he sought to explain his friend's absence, surmising all

sorts of obstacles and unforeseen complications. Marie, however, did not

seem afraid, but again laughed, saying that her father never could be

punctual. Still she was extremely eager for him to see her walking, to

find her on her legs again, resuscitated, in the fresh blossoming of her

youth.

All at once Sister Hyacinthe, who had gone to lean over the balcony,

returned to the room, saying "Here he comes! He's down below, just

alighting from his carriage."

"Ah!" cried Marie, with the eager playfulness of a school-girl, "let's

give him a surprise. Yes, we must hide, and when he's here we'll show

ourselves all of a sudden."

With these words, she hastily dragged Sister Hyacinthe into the adjoining

room.

Almost immediately afterwards, M. de Guersaint entered like a whirlwind

from the passage, the door communicating with which had been quickly

opened by Pierre, and, shaking the young priest's hand, the belated

excursionist exclaimed: "Here I am at last! Ah! my friend, you can't have

known what to think since four o'clock yesterday, when you expected me

back, eh? But you have no idea of the adventures we have had. To begin

with, one of the wheels of our landau came off just as we reached

Gavarnie; then, yesterday evening--though we managed to start off

again--a frightful storm detained us all night long at Saint-Sauveur. I

wasn't able to sleep a wink." Then, breaking off, he inquired, "And you,

are you all right?"

"I wasn't able to sleep either," said the priest; "they made such a noise

in the hotel."

But M. de Guersaint had already started off again: "All the same, it was

delightful. I must tell you; you can't imagine it. I was with three

delightful churchmen. Abbe des Hermoises is certainly the most charming

man I know. Oh! we did laugh--we did laugh!"

Then he again stopped, to inquire, "And how's my daughter?"

Thereupon a clear laugh behind him caused him to turn round, and he

remained with his mouth wide open. Marie was there, and was walking, with

a look of rapturous delight upon her face, which was beaming with health.

He had never for a moment doubted the miracle, and was not in the least

surprised that it had taken place, for he had returned with the

conviction that everything would end well, and that he would surely find

her cured. But what so utterly astounded him was the prodigious spectacle

which he had not foreseen: his daughter, looking so beautiful, so divine,

in her little black gown!--his daughter, who had not even brought a hat

with her, and merely had a piece of lace tied over her lovely fair

hair!--his daughter, full of life, blooming, triumphant, similar to all

the daughters of all the fathers whom he had envied for so many years!

"O my child! O my child!" he exclaimed.

And, as she had flown into his arms, he pressed her to his heart, and

then they fell upon their knees together. Everything disappeared from

before them in a radiant effusion of faith and love. This heedless,

hare-brained man, who fell asleep instead of accompanying his daughter to

the Grotto, who went off to Gavarnie on the day the Blessed Virgin was to

cure her, overflowed with such paternal affection, with such Christian

faith so exalted by thankfulness, that for a moment he appeared sublime.

"O Jesus! O Mary! let me thank you for having restored my child to me! O

my child, we shall never have breath enough, soul enough, to render

thanks to Mary and Jesus for the great happiness they have vouchsafed us!

O my child, whom they have resuscitated, O my child, whom they have made

so beautiful again, take my heart to offer it to them with your own! I am

yours, I am theirs eternally, O my beloved child, my adored child!"

Kneeling before the open window they both, with uplifted eyes, gazed

ardently on heaven. The daughter had rested her head on her father's

shoulder; whilst he had passed an arm round her waist. They had become

one. Tears slowly trickled down their enraptured faces, which were

smiling with superhuman felicity, whilst they stammered together

disconnected expressions of gratitude.

"O Jesus, we give Thee thanks! O Holy Mother of Jesus, we give thee

thanks! We love you, we adore you both. You have rejuvenated the best

blood in our veins; it is yours, it circulates only for you. O

All-powerful Mother, O Divine and Well-beloved Son, behold a daughter and

a father who bless you, who prostrate themselves with joy at your feet."

So affecting was this mingling of two beings, happy at last after so many

dark days, this happiness, which could but stammer as though still tinged

with suffering, that Pierre was again moved to tears. But this time they

were soothing tears which relieved his heart. Ah! poor pitiable humanity!

how pleasant it was to see it somewhat consoled and enraptured! and what

did it matter, after all, if its great joys of a few seconds' duration

sprang from the eternal illusion! Was not the whole of humanity, pitiable

humanity, saved by love, personified by that poor childish man who

suddenly became sublime because he found his daughter resuscitated?

Standing a little aside, Sister Hyacinthe was also weeping, her heart

very full, full of human emotion which she had never before experienced,

she who had known no other parents than the Almighty and the Blessed

Virgin. Silence had now fallen in this room full of so much tearful

fraternity. And it was she who spoke the first, when the father and the

daughter, overcome with emotion, at length rose up.

"Now, mademoiselle," she said, "we must be quick and get back to the

hospital."

But they all protested. M. de Guersaint wished to keep his daughter with

him, and Marie's eyes expressed an eager desire, a longing to enjoy life,

to walk and ramble through the whole vast world.

"Oh! no, no!" said the father, "I won't give her back to you. We'll each

have a cup of milk, for I'm dying of thirst; then we'll go out and walk

about. Yes, yes, both of us! She shall take my arm, like a little woman!"

Sister Hyacinthe laughed again. "Very well!" said she, "I'll leave her

with you, and tell the ladies that you've stolen her from me. But for my

own part I must be off. You've no idea what an amount of work we have to

get through at the hospital if we are to be ready in time to leave: there

are all the patients and things to be seen to; and all is in the greatest

confusion!"

"So to-day's really Tuesday, and we leave this afternoon?" asked Monsieur

de Guersaint, already absent-minded again.

"Of course we do, and don't forget! The white train starts at 3.40. And

if you're sensible you'll bring your daughter back early so that she may

have a little rest."

Marie walked with the Sister to the door, saying "Be easy, I will be very

good. Besides, I want to go back to the Grotto, to thank the Blessed

Virgin once more."

When they found themselves all three alone in the little room full of

sunshine, it was delicious. Pierre called the servant and told her to

bring them some milk, some chocolate, and cakes, in fact the nicest

things he could think of. And although Marie had already broken her fast,

she ate again, so great an appetite had come upon her since the night

before. They drew the table to the window and made quite a feast amidst

the keen air from the mountains, whilst the hundred bells of Lourdes,

proclaimed with flying peals the glory of that radiant day. They

chattered and laughed, and the young woman told her father the story of

the miracle, with all the oft-repeated details. She related, too, how she

had left her box at the Basilica, and how she had slept twelve hours

without stirring. Then M. de Guersaint on his side wished to relate his

excursion, but got mixed and kept coming back to the miracle. Finally, it

appeared that the Cirque de Gavarnie was something colossal. Only, when

you looked at it from a distance it seemed small, for you lost all sense

of proportion. The gigantic snow-covered tiers of cliffs, the topmost

ridge standing out against the sky with the outlines of some cyclopean

fortress with razed keep and jagged ramparts, the great cascade, whose

ceaseless jet seemed so slow when in reality it must have rushed down

with a noise like thunder, the whole immensity, the forests on right and

left, the torrents and the landslips, looked as though they might have

been held in the palm of one's hand, when one gazed upon them from the

village market-place. And what had impressed him most, what he repeatedly

alluded to, were the strange figures described by the snow, which had

remained up there amongst the rocks. Amongst others was a huge crucifix,

a white cross, several thousand yards in length, which you might have

thought had been thrown across the amphitheatre from one end to the

other.

However, all at once M. de Guersaint broke off to inquire: "By the way,

what's happening at our neighbour's? As I came up-stairs a little while

ago I met Monsieur Vigneron running about like a madman; and, through the

open doorway of their room, I fancied I saw Madame Vigneron looking very

red. Has their son Gustave had another attack?"

Pierre had quite forgotten Madame Chaise lying dead on the other side of

the partition. He seemed to feel a cold breath pass over him. "No, no,"

he answered, "the child is all right." And he said no more, preferring to

remain silent. Why spoil this happy hour of new life and reconquered

youth by mingling with it the image of death? However, from that moment

he himself could not cease thinking of the proximity of nothingness. And

he thought, too, of that other room where Madame Volmar's friend was now

alone, stifling his sobs with his lips pressed upon a pair of gloves

which he had stolen from her. All the sounds of the hotel were now

becoming audible again--the coughs, the sighs, the indistinct voices, the

continual slamming of doors, the creaking of the floors beneath the great

accumulation of travellers, and all the stir in the passages, along which

flying skirts were sweeping, and families galloping distractedly amidst

the hurry-scurry of departure.

"On my word! you'll do yourself an injury," all at once cried Monsieur de

Guersaint, on seeing his daughter take up another cake.

Marie was quite merry too. But at a sudden thought tears came into her

eyes, and she exclaimed: "Ah! how glad I am! but also how sorry when I

think that everybody is not as pleased as myself."

II. PLEASANT HOURS

IT was eight o'clock, and Marie was so impatient that she could not keep

still, but continued going to the window, as if she wished to inhale all

the air of the vast, expanse and the immense sky. Ah! what a pleasure to

be able to run about the streets, across the squares, to go everywhere as

far as she might wish. And to show how strong she was, to have the pride

of walking leagues in the presence of everyone, now that the Blessed

Virgin had cured her! It was an irresistible impulsion, a flight of her

entire being, her blood, and her heart.

However, just as she was setting out she made up her mind that her first

visit with her father ought to be to the Grotto, where both of them had

to thank Our Lady of Lourdes. Then they would be free; they would have

two long hours before them, and might walk wherever they chose, before

she returned to lunch and pack up her few things at the hospital.

"Well, is everyone ready?" repeated M. de Guersaint. "Shall we make a

move?"

Pierre took his hat, and all three went down-stairs, talking very loud

and laughing on the staircase, like boisterous school-boys going for

their holidays. They had almost reached the street, when at the doorway

Madame Majeste rushed forward. She had evidently been waiting for them to

go out.

"Ah! mademoiselle; ah! gentlemen, allow me to congratulate you," she

said. "We have heard of the extraordinary favour that has been granted

you; we are so happy, so much flattered, when the Blessed Virgin is

pleased to select one of our customers!"

Her dry, harsh face was melting with amiability, and she observed the

miraculously healed girl with the fondest of eyes. Then she impulsively

called her husband, who was passing: "Look, my dear! It's mademoiselle;

it's mademoiselle."

Majeste's clean-shaven face, puffed out with yellow fat, assumed a happy

and grateful expression. "Really, mademoiselle, I cannot tell you how

honoured we feel," said he. "We shall never forget that your papa put up

at our place. It has already excited the envy of many people."

While he spoke Madame Majeste stopped the other travellers who were going

out, and with a sign summoned the families already seated in the

dining-room; indeed, she would have called in the whole street if they

had given her time, to show that she had in her house the miracle at

which all Lourdes had been marvelling since the previous day. People