tissue; I had reflected upon the infection of an ardent crowd; I had
read Zola's dishonest book;[1] and these things, coupled with the
extreme difficulty which the imagination finds in realizing what it has
never experienced--since, after all, miracles are confessedly
miraculous, and therefore unusual--the effect of all this was to render
my mental state a singularly detached one. I believed? Yes, I suppose
so; but it was a halting act of faith pure and simple; it was not yet
either sight or real conviction.

The cross, then, was the first glimpse of Lourdes' presence; and ten
minutes later we were in the town itself.

Lourdes is not beautiful, though it must once have been. It was once a
little Franco-Spanish town, set in the lap of the hills, with a swift,
broad, shallow stream, the Gave, flowing beneath it. It is now
cosmopolitan, and therefore undistinguished. As we passed slowly through
the crowded streets--for the National Pilgrimage was but now
arriving--we saw endless rows of shops and booths sheltering beneath
tall white blank houses, as correct and as expressionless as a
brainless, well-bred man. Here and there we passed a great hotel. The
crowd about our wheels was almost as cosmopolitan as a Roman crowd. It
was largely French, as that is largely Italian; but the Spaniards were
there, vivid-faced men and women, severe Britons, solemn Teutons; and, I
have no doubt, Italians, Belgians, Flemish and Austrians as well. At
least I heard during my three days' stay all the languages that I could
recognize, and many that I could not. There were many motor-cars there
besides our own, carriages, carts, bell-clanging trams, and the litters
of the sick. Presently we dismounted in a side street, and set out to
walk to the Grotto, through the hot evening sunshine.