ly walked away.

III. FOUNTAIN AND PISCINA

As Pierre went off, ill at ease, mastered by invincible repugnance,
unwilling to remain there any longer, he caught sight of M. de Guersaint,
kneeling near the Grotto, with the absorbed air of one who is praying
with his whole soul. The young priest had not seen him since the morning,
and did not know whether he had managed to secure a couple of rooms in
one or other of the hotels, so that his first impulse was to go and join
him. Then, however, he hesitated, unwilling to disturb his meditations,
for he was doubtless praying for his daughter, whom he fondly loved, in
spite of the constant absent-mindedness of his volatile brain.
Accordingly, the young priest passed on, and took his way under the
trees. Nine o'clock was now striking, he had a couple of hours before
him.

By dint of money, the wild bank where swine had formerly pastured had
been transformed into a superb avenue skirting the Gave. It had been
necessary to put back the river's bed in order to gain ground, and lay
out a monumental quay bordered by a broad footway, and protected by a
parapet. Some two or three hundred yards farther on, a hill brought the
avenue to an end, and it thus resembled an enclosed promenade, provided
with benches, and shaded by magnificent trees. Nobody passed along,
however; merely the overflow of the crowd had settled there, and solitary
spots still abounded between the grassy wall limiting the promenade on
the south, and the extensive fields spreading out northward beyond the
Gave, as far as the wooded slopes which the white-walled convents
brightened. Under the foliage, on the margin of the running water, one
could enjoy delightful freshness, even during the burning days of August.

Thus Pierre, like a man at last awakening from a painful dream, soon
found rest of mind again. He had questioned himself in the acute anxiety
which he felt with regard to his sensations. Had he not reached Lourdes
that morning possessed by a genuine desire to believe, an idea that he
was indeed again beginning to believe even as he had done in the docile
days of childhood when his mother had made him join his hands, and taught
him to fear God? Yet as soon as he had found himself at the Grotto, the
idolatry of the worship, the violence of the display of faith, the
onslaught upon human reason which he witnessed, had so disturbed him that
he had almost fainted. What would become of him then? Could he no