This thought, the outcome of his human charity, filled Pierre with
emotion. For another moment he was able to regain possession of himself,
and prayed for the cure of all, deeply touched by the belief that he
himself might in some degree contribute towards the cure of Marie. But
all at once, without knowing what transition of ideas led to it, a
recollection returned to him of the medical consultation which he had
insisted upon prior to the young girl's departure for Lourdes. The scene
rose before him with extraordinary clearness and precision; he saw the
room with its grey, blue-flowered wall-paper, and he heard the three
doctors discuss and decide. The two who had given certificates
diagnosticating paralysis of the marrow spoke discreetly, slowly, like
esteemed, well-known, perfectly honourable practitioners; but Pierre
still heard the warm, vivacious voice of his cousin Beauclair, the third
doctor, a young man of vast and daring intelligence, who was treated
coldly by his colleagues as being of an adventurous turn of mind. And at
this supreme moment Pierre was surprised to find in his memory things
which he did not know were there; but it was only an instance of that
singular phenomenon by which it sometimes happens that words scarce
listened to, words but imperfectly heard, words stored away in the brain
almost in spite of self, will awaken, burst forth, and impose themselves
on the mind after they have long been forgotten. And thus it now seemed
to him that the very approach of the miracle was bringing him a vision of
the conditions under which--according to Beauclair's predictions--the
miracle would be accomplished.

In vain did Pierre endeavour to drive away this recollection by praying
with an increase of fervour. The scene again appeared to him, and the old
words rang out, filling his ears like a trumpet-blast. He was now again
in the dining-room, where Beauclair and he had shut themselves up after