ctor.

"I heard your voice, Monsieur Chassaigne, and came down," said he. "So
there you are, showing the room again?"

"Just so, Monsieur l' Abbe; I took the liberty. It does not inconvenience
you?"

"Oh! not at all, not at all! Come as often as you please, and bring other
people."

He laughed in an engaging manner, and bowed to Pierre, who, astonished by
this quiet carelessness, observed: "The people who come, however, must
sometimes plague you?"

The curate in his turn seemed surprised. "Indeed, no! Nobody comes. You
see the place is scarcely known. Every one remains over there at the
Grotto. I leave the door open so as not to be worried. But days and days
often pass without my hearing even the sound of a mouse."

Pierre's eyes were becoming more and more accustomed to the obscurity;
and among the vague, perplexing objects which filled the corners, he
ended by distinguishing some old barrels, remnants of fowl cages, and
broken tools, a lot of rubbish such as is swept away and thrown to the
bottom of cellars. Hanging from the rafters, moreover, were some
provisions, a salad basket full of eggs, and several bunches of big pink
onions.

"And, from what I see," resumed Pierre, with a slight shudder, "you have
thought that you might make use of the room?"

The curate was beginning to feel uncomfortable. "Of course, that's it,"
said he. "What can one do? The house is so small, I have so little space.
And then you can't imagine how damp it is here; it is altogether
impossible to occupy the room. And so, _mon Dieu_, little by little all
this has accumulated here by itself, contrary to one's own desire."

"It has become a lumber-room," concluded Pierre.

"Oh no! hardly that. An unoccupied room, and yet in truth, if you insist
on it, it is a lumber-room!"

His uneasiness was increasing, mingled with a little shame. Doctor
Chassaigne remained silent and did not interfere; but he smiled, and was
visibly delighted at his companion's revolt against human ingratitude.
Pierre, unable to restrain himself, now continued: "You must excuse me,
Monsieur l'Abbe, if I insist. But just reflect that you owe everything to
Bernadette; but for her Lourdes would still be one of the least known
towns of France. And really it seems to me that out of mere gratitude the
parish ought to have transformed this wretched room into a chapel."

"Oh! a chapel!" interrupted the curate. "It is only a question of a human
creature: the Church coul