And he walked up
to the railing, and dropped upon his knees, stammering: "O Marie! O
Marie!" without knowing whether this heart-cry were intended for the
Virgin or for the beloved friend of his childhood. And he remained there,
utterly overwhelmed, waiting for grace to come to him.
Endless minutes went by. This was indeed the superhuman effort, the
waiting for the miracle which he had come to seek for himself, the sudden
revelation, the thunderclap which was to sweep away his unbelief and
restore him, rejuvenated and triumphant, to the faith of the
simple-minded. He surrendered himself, he wished that some mighty power
might ravage his being and transform it. But, even as before whilst
saying his mass, he heard naught within him but an endless silence, felt
nothing but a boundless vacuum. There was no divine intervention, his
despairing heart almost seemed to cease beating. And although he strove
to pray, to fix his mind wholly upon that powerful Virgin, so
compassionate to poor humanity, his thoughts none the less wandered, won
back by the outside world, and again turning to puerile trifles. Within
the Grotto, on the other side of the railing, he had once more caught
sight of Baron Suire, still asleep, still continuing his pleasant nap
with his hands clasped in front of him. Other things also attracted his
attention: the flowers deposited at the feet of the Virgin, the letters
cast there as though into a heavenly letter-box, the delicate lace-like
work of wax which remained erect around the flames of the larger tapers,
looking like some rich silver ornamentation.
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