in a confused, husky voice:
"Ah, if you only knew how sensibly those poor people talked to me to
induce me to go back. A work-woman like myself, with work waiting, ought
to return to Paris, they said; and, besides, I couldn't afford to
sacrifice my return ticket; I must take the three-forty train. And they
told me, too, that people are compelled to put up with things when they
are not rich. Only the rich can keep their dead, do what they like with
them, eh? And I can't remember--no, again I can't remember! I didn't even
know the time; I should never have been able to find my way back to the
station. After the funeral over there, at a place where there were two
trees, it must have been those poor people who led me away, half out of
my senses, and brought me to the station, and pushed me into the carriage
just at the moment when the train was starting. But what a rending it
was--as if my heart had remained there underground, and it is frightful,
that it is, frightful, my God!"

"Poor woman!" murmured Marie. "Take courage, and pray to the Blessed
Virgin for the succour which she never refuses to the afflicted."

But at this Madame Vincent shook with rage. "It isn't true!" she cried.
"The Blessed Virgin doesn't care a rap about me. She doesn't tell the
truth! Why did she deceive me? I should never have gone to Lourdes if I
hadn't heard that voice in a church. My little girl would still be alive,
and perhaps the doctors would have saved her. I, who would never set my
foot among the priests formerly! Ah! I was right! I was right! There's no
Blessed Virgin at all!"

And in this wise, without resignation, without illusion, without hope,
she continued blaspheming with the coarse fury of a woman of the people,
shrieking the sufferings of her heart aloud in such rough fashion that
Sister Hyacinthe had to intervene: "Be quiet, you unhappy woman! It is
God who is making you suffer, to punish you."

The scene had already lasted a long time, and as they passed Riscle at
full speed the Sister again clapped her hands and gave the signal for the
chanting of the "Laudate Mariam." "Come, come, my children," she
exclaimed, "all together, and with all your hearts:

"In heav'n, on earth,
All voices raise,
In concert sing
My Mother's praise:
_Laudate, laudate, laudate Mariam_!"

Madame Vincent, whose voice was drowned by this canticle of love, now
only sobbed, with her hands pressed to her face. Her revolt