The trees and houses on either side of the
line disappeared in the grey light with the fleetness of vague visions,
whilst the distant hills, enveloped in mist, vanished more slowly, with
the gentle rise and fall of a swelling sea. Between Beaugency and Les
Aubrais the train seemed to slacken speed, though it still kept up its
rhythmical, persistent rumbling, which the deafened pilgrims no longer
even heard.
At length, when Les Aubrais had been left behind, they began to lunch in
the carriage. It was then a quarter to twelve, and when they had said the
"Angelus," and the three "Aves" had been thrice repeated, Pierre took
from Marie's bag the little book whose blue cover was ornamented with an
artless picture of Our Lady of Lourdes. Sister Hyacinthe clapped her
hands as a signal for silence, and amidst general wakefulness and ardent
curiosity like that of big children impassioned by the marvellous story,
the priest was able to begin reading in his fine, penetrating voice. Now
came the narrative of Bernadette's sojourn at Nevers, and then her death
there. Pierre, however, as on the two previous occasions, soon ceased
following the exact text of the little book, and added charming anecdotes
of his own, both what he knew and what he could divine; and, for himself
alone, he again evolved the true story, the human, pitiful story, that
which none had ever told, but which he felt so deeply.
It was on the 8th July, 1866, that Bernadette left Lourdes.
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