fields, the fathomless fields, where not even any
lonely little village lights could be seen gleaming. For a moment Pierre
had turned towards Marie and had noticed that her eyes were closed. But
he could divine that she was not sleeping, that she was savouring the
deep peacefulness which prevailed around them amidst the thundering roar
of their rush through the darkness, and, like her, he closed his eyelids
and began dreaming.

Yet once again did the past arise before him: the little house at
Neuilly, the embrace which they had exchanged near the flowering hedge
under the trees flecked with sunlight. How far away all that already was,
and with what perfume had it not filled his life! Then bitter thoughts
returned to him at the memory of the day when he had become a priest.
Since she would never be a woman, he had consented to be a man no more;
and that was to prove their eternal misfortune, for ironical Nature was
to make her a wife and a mother after all. Had he only been able to
retain his faith he might have found eternal consolation in it. But all
his attempts to regain it had been in vain. He had gone to Lourdes, he
had striven his utmost at the Grotto, he had hoped for a moment that he
would end by believing should Marie be miraculously healed; but total and
irremediable ruin had come when the predicted cure had taken place even
as science had foretold. And their idyl, so pure and so painful, the long
story of their affection bathed in tears, likewise spread out before him.
She, having penetrated his sad secret, had come to Lourdes to pray to
Heaven for the miracle of his conversion. When they had remained alone
under the trees amidst the perfume of the invisible roses, during the
night procession, they had prayed one for the other, mingling one in the
other, with an ardent desire for their mutual happiness. Before the
Grotto, too, she had entreated the Blessed Virgin to forget her and to
save him, if she could obtain but one favour from her Divine Son. Then,
healed, beside herself, transported with love and gratitude, whirled with
her little car up the inclined ways to the Basilica, she had thought her
prayers granted, and had cried aloud the joy she felt that they should
have both been saved, together, together! Ah! that lie which he, prompted
by affection and charity, had told, that error in which he had from that
moment suffered her to remain, with what a weight did it oppress his
heart! It was the heavy slab w