Grace had
departed, one must await its return. And at last, sometimes after long
hours, the rebellious complaints would die away, and peace would reign
again amidst the deep, woeful silence.
"Calm yourself, calm yourself, I implore you," Pierre gently repeated to
Marie, seeing that a fresh attack was coming upon her, an attack of doubt
in herself, of fear that she was unworthy of the divine assistance.
Sister Hyacinthe, moreover, had again drawn near. "You will not be able
to take the sacrament by-and-by, my dear child," said she, "if you
continue in such a state. Come, since we have given Monsieur l'Abbe
permission to read to you, why don't you let him do so?"
Marie made a feeble gesture as though to say that she consented, and
Pierre at once took out of the valise at the foot of her bed, the little
blue-covered book in which the story of Bernadette was so naively
related. As on the previous night, however, when the train was rolling
on, he did not confine himself to the bald phraseology of the book, but
began improvising, relating all manner of details in his own fashion, in
order to charm the simple folks who listened to him. Nevertheless, with
his reasoning, analytical proclivities, he could not prevent himself from
secretly re-establishing the real facts, imparting, for himself alone, a
human character to this legend, whose wealth of prodigies contributed so
greatly to the cure of those that suffered. Women were soon sitting up on
all the surrounding beds.
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