them, reverted to the covert prayer for happiness that they
had come to offer up at Lourdes: a pleasant old age, deservedly gained by
twenty years of honesty, with a respectable fortune which in later years
they would go and enjoy in the country, cultivating flowers. On the other
hand, little Gustave, who had seen and noted everything with his bright
eyes and intelligence sharpened by suffering, was not praying, but
smiling at space, with his vague enigmatical smile. What could be the use
of his praying? He knew that the Blessed Virgin would not cure him, and
that he would die.

However, M. Vigneron could not remain long without busying himself about
his neighbours. Madame Dieulafay, who had come late, had been deposited
in the crowded central pathway; and he marvelled at the luxury about the
young woman, that sort of coffin quilted with white silk, in which she
was lying, attired in a pink dressing-gown trimmed with Valenciennes
lace. The husband in a frock-coat, and the sister in a black gown of
simple but marvellous elegance, were standing by; while Abbe Judaine,
kneeling near the sufferer, finished offering up a fervent prayer.

When the priest had risen, M. Vigneron made him a little room on the
bench beside him; and he then took the liberty of questioning him. "Well,
Monsieur le Cure, does that poor young woman feel a little better?"

Abbe Judaine made a gesture of infinite sadness.

"Alas! no. I was full of so much hope! It was I who persuaded the family
to come. Two years ago the Blessed Virgin showed me such extraordinary
grace by curing my poor lost eyes, that I hoped to obtain another favour
from her. However, I will not despair. We still have until to-morrow."

M. Vigneron again looked towards Madame Dieulafay and examined her face,
still of a perfect oval and with admirable eyes; but it was
expressionless, with ashen hue, similar to a mask of death, amidst the
lace. "It's really very sad," he murmured.

"And if you had seen her last summer!" resumed the priest. "They have
their country seat at Saligny, my parish, and I often dined with them. I
cannot help feeling sad when I look at her elder sister, Madame Jousseur,
that lady in black who stands there, for she bears a strong resemblance
to her; and the poor sufferer was even prettier, one of the beauties of
Paris. And now compare them together--observe that brilliancy, that
sovereign grace, beside that poor, pitiful creature--it oppresses one's
heart--