haphazard fashion. There was neither table nor shelf, so that the
homeless pilgrims who had sought refuge there had piled up their baskets,
parcels, and valises in the window embrasures. Moreover, the place was
apparently empty; the poor folk that it sheltered had no doubt joined the
procession. Nevertheless, although the door stood wide open, an almost
unbearable smell reigned inside. The very walls seemed impregnated with
an odour of poverty, and in spite of the bright sunshine which had
prevailed during the day, the flagstones were quite damp, soiled and
soaked with expectorations, spilt wine, and grease. This mess had been
made by the poorer pilgrims, who with their dirty skins and wretched rags
lived in the hall, eating and sleeping in heaps on the benches. Pierre
speedily came to the conclusion that the pleasant smell of roses must
emanate from some other spot; still, he was making the round of the hall,
which was lighted by four smoky lanterns, and which he believed to be
altogether unoccupied, when, against the left-hand wall, he was surprised
to espy the vague figure of a woman in black, with what seemed to be a
white parcel lying on her lap. She was all alone in that solitude, and
did not stir; however, her eyes were wide open.

He drew near and recognised Madame Vincent. She addressed him in a deep,
broken voice: "Rose has suffered so dreadfully to-day! Since daybreak she
has not ceased moaning. And so, as she fell asleep a couple of hours ago,
I haven't dared to stir for fear lest she should awake and suffer again."

Thus the poor woman remained motionless, martyr-mother that she was,
having for long months held her daughter in her arms in this fashion, in
the stubborn hope of curing her. In her arms, too, she had brought her to
Lourdes; in her arms she had carried her to the Grotto; in her arms she
had rocked her to sleep, having neither a room of her own, nor even a
hospital bed at her disposal.