"
"But I don't wish Pierre to pass the night out here. He will join you
by-and-by after he has taken me to the Grotto. I sha'n't have any further
need of anybody; the first bearer who passes can take me back to the
hospital to-morrow morning."
Pierre had not interrupted her, and now he simply said: "No, no, Marie, I
shall stay. Like you, I shall spend the night at the Grotto."
She opened her mouth to insist and express her displeasure. But he had
spoken those words so gently, and she had detected in them such a
dolorous thirst for happiness, that, stirred to the depths of her soul,
she stayed her tongue.
"Well, well, my children," replied her father, "settle the matter between
you. I know that you are both very sensible. And now good-night, and
don't be at all uneasy about me."
He gave his daughter a long, loving kiss, pressed the young priest's
hands, and then went off, disappearing among the serried ranks of the
procession, which he once more had to cross.
Then they remained alone in their dark, solitary nook under the spreading
trees, she still sitting up in her box, and he kneeling on the grass,
with his elbow resting on one of the wheels. And it was truly sweet to
linger there while the tapers continued marching past, and, after a
turning movement, assembled on the Place du Rosaire. What delighted
Pierre was that nothing of all the daytime junketing remained. It seemed
as though a purifying breeze had come down from the mountains, sweeping
away all the odour of strong meats, the greedy Sunday delights, the
scorching, pestilential, fair-field dust which, at an earlier hour, had
hovered above the town.
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