force had acted in this case? Or
rather what faulty medical diagnosis, what assemblage of errors and
exaggerations, had ended in this fine tale?

All the patients, however, wished to see the miraculous foot, that
outward and visible sign of the divine cure which each of them was going
in search of. And it was Marie, sitting up in her box, and already
feeling less pain, who touched it first. Then Madame Maze, quite roused
from her melancholy, passed it on to Madame Vincent, who would have
kissed it for the hope which it restored to her. M. Sabathier had
listened to all the explanations with a beatific air; Madame Vetu, La
Grivotte, and even Brother Isidore opened their eyes, and evinced signs
of interest; whilst the face of Elise Rouquet had assumed an
extraordinary expression, transfigured by faith, almost beatified. If a
sore had thus disappeared, might not her own sore close and disappear,
her face retaining no trace of it save a slight scar, and again becoming
such a face as other people had? Sophie, who was still standing, had to
hold on to one of the iron rails, and place her foot on the partition,
now on the right, now on the left. And she did not weary of it all, but
felt exceedingly happy and proud at the many exclamations which were
raised, the quivering admiration and religious respect which were
bestowed on that little piece of her person, that little foot which had
now, so to say, become sacred.

"One must possess great faith, no doubt," said Marie, thinking aloud.
"One must have a pure unspotted soul." And, addressing herself to M. de
Guersaint, she added: "Father, I feel that I should get well if I were
ten years old, if I had the unspotted soul of a little girl."

"But you are ten years old, my darling! Is it not so, Pierre? A little
girl of ten years old could not have a more spotless soul."

Possessed of a mind prone to chimeras, M. de Guersaint was fond of
hearing tales of miracles. As for the young priest, profoundly affected
by the ardent purity which the young girl evinced, he no longer sought to
discuss the question, but let her surrender herself to the consoling
illusions which Sophie's tale had wafted through the carriage.

The temperature had become yet more oppressive since their departure from
Poitiers, a storm was rising in the coppery sky, and it seemed as though
the train were rushing through a furnace. The villages passed, mournful
and solitary under the burning sun. At Couhe-Verac the