"Don't you feel cold?"
She did not reply. He felt her hands and found them warm and soft, albeit
slightly trembling. "It is not the cold which makes you tremble, is it,
Marie?" he asked.
In a voice as gentle as a zephyr she replied: "No, no! let me be; I am so
happy! I shall see her, I feel it. Ah! what joy!"
So, after slightly pulling up her shawl, he went forth into the night, a
prey to indescribable agitation. Beyond the bright glow of the Grotto was
a night as black as ink, a region of darkness, into which he plunged at
random. Then, as his eyes became accustomed to this gloom, he found
himself near the Gave, and skirted it, following a path shaded by tall
trees, where he again came upon a refreshing obscurity. This shade and
coolness, both so soothing, now brought him relief. And his only surprise
was that he had not fallen on his knees in the Grotto, and prayed, even
as Marie was praying, with all the power of his soul. What could be the
obstacle within him? Whence came the irresistible revolt which prevented
him from surrendering himself to faith even when his overtaxed, tortured
being longed to yield? He understood well enough that it was his reason
alone which protested, and the time had come when he would gladly have
killed that voracious reason, which was devouring his life and preventing
him from enjoying the happiness allowed to the ignorant and the simple.
Perhaps, had he beheld a miracle, he might have acquired enough strength
of will to believe.
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