Julio was drawn out of these pessimistic reflections by the childish glee which many of the convalescents were evincing.  Some were Mussulmans, sharpshooters from Algeria and Morocco.  In Lourdes, as they might be anywhere, they were interested only in the gifts which the people were showering upon them with patriotic affection.  They all surveyed with indifference the basilica inhabited by “the white lady,” their only preoccupation being to beg for cigars and sweets.

Finding themselves regaled by the dominant race, they became greatly puffed up, daring everything like mischievous children.  What pleased them most was the fact that the ladies would take them by the hand.  Blessed war that permitted them to approach and touch these white women, perfumed and smiling as they appeared in their dreams of the paradise of the blest!  “Lady . . .  Lady,” they would sigh, looking at them with dark, sparkling eyes.  And not content with the hand, their dark paws would venture the length of the entire arm while the ladies laughed at this tremulous adoration.  Others would go through the crowds, offering their right hand to all the women.  “We touch hands.” . . .  And then they would go away satisfied after receiving the hand clasp.

Desnoyers wandered a long time around the basilica where, in the shadow of the trees, were long rows of wheeled chairs occupied by the wounded.  Officers and soldiers rested many hours in the blue shade, watching their comrades who were able to use their legs.  The sacred grotto was resplendent with the lights from hundreds of candles.  Devout crowds were kneeling in the open air, fixing their eyes in supplication on the sacred stones whilst their thoughts were flying far away to the fields of battle, making their petitions with that confidence in divinity which accompanies every distress.  Among the kneeling mass were many soldiers with bandaged heads, kepis in hand and tearful eyes.

Up and down the double staircase of the basilica were flitting women, clad in white, with spotless headdresses that fluttered in such a way that they appeared like flying doves.  These were the nurses and Sisters of Charity guiding the steps of the injured.  Desnoyers thought he recognized Marguerite in every one of them, but the prompt disillusion following each of these discoveries soon made him doubtful about the outcome of his journey.  She was not in Lourdes, either.  He would never find her in that France so immeasurably expanded by the war that it had converted every town into a hospital.

His afternoon explorations were no more successful.  The employees listened to his interrogations with a distraught air.  He could come back again; just now they were taken up with the announcement that another hospital train was on the way.  The great battle was still going on near Paris.  They had to improvise lodgings for the new consignment of mutilated humanity.  In order to pass away the time until his return, Desnoyers went back to the garden near the grotto.  He was planning to return to Pau that night; there was evidently nothing more to do at Lourdes.  In what direction should he now continue his search?