stirring the leaves of the trees.

"Ah! I said so," muttered M. de Guersaint; "one ought to be at the
Calvary to see everything." With the obstinacy of a child he kept on
returning to his first idea, again and again complaining that they had
chosen "the worst possible place."

"But why don't you go up to the Calvary, papa?" at last said Marie.
"There is still time. Pierre will stay here with me." And with a mournful
laugh she added: "Go; you know very well that nobody will run away with
me."

He at first refused to act upon the suggestion, but, unable to resist his
desire, he all at once fell in with it. And he had to hasten his steps,
crossing the lawns at a run. "Don't move," he called; "wait for me under
the trees. I will tell you of all that I may see up there."

Then Pierre and Marie remained alone in that dim, solitary nook, whence
came such a perfume of roses, albeit no roses could be found. And they
did not speak, but in silence watched the procession, which was now
coming down from the hill with a gentle, continuous, gliding motion.

A double file of quivering stars leapt into view on the left-hand side of
the Basilica, and then followed the monumental, gradient way, whose curve
is gradually described. At that distance you were still unable to see the
pilgrims themselves, and you beheld simply those well-disciplined
travelling lights tracing geometrical lines amidst the darkness. Under
the deep blue heavens, even the buildings at first remained vague,
forming but blacker patches against the sky. Little by little, however,
as the number of candles increased, the principal architectural