“In the first place, this:  She appears to none but the poor and humble; She addresses the simple souls who have in a way handed down the primitive occupation, the biblical function of the Patriarchs; She unveils herself to the children of the soil, to the shepherds, to girls as they watch the flock.  Both at La Salette and at Lourdes She chose little pastors for Her confidants, and this is intelligible, since, by acting thus, she confirms the known will of Her Son; the first to behold the infant Jesus in the manger at Bethlehem were in fact shepherds, and it was from among men of the lowest class that Christ chose His apostles.

“And is not the water that serves as a medium of cure prefigured in the Sacred Books—­in the Old Testament by the River Jordan, which cleansed Naaman of his leprosy; and in the New by the probationary pool stirred by an angel?

“Another law seems no less probable.  The Virgin is, as far as possible, considerate of the temperament and individual character of the persons She appears to.  She places Herself on the level of their intellect, is incarnate in the only material form that they can conceive of.  She assumes the simple aspect these poor creatures love, accepting the blue and white robes, the crown and wreaths of roses, the trinkets and garlands and frippery of a first Communion, the ugliest garb.

“There is not indeed a single case where the shepherd maids who saw Her described Her otherwise than as a ‘beautiful lady’ with the features of the Virgin of a village altar, a Madonna of the Saint-Sulpice shops, a street-corner Queen.

“These two rules are more or less universal,” said Durtal to himself.  “As to the Son, it would seem that He never now will reveal Himself in human form to the masses.  Since His appearance to the Blessed Mary Margaret, whom He employed as a mouthpiece to address the people, He has been silent.  He keeps in the background, giving precedence to His Mother.

“He, it is true, reserves for Himself a dwelling in the secret places, the hidden regions, the strongholds of the soul, as Saint Theresa calls them; but His presence is unseen and His words spoken within us, and generally not apprehended by means of the senses.”

Durtal ceased speaking, confessing to himself how inane were these reflections, how powerless the human reason to investigate the inconceivable purposes of the Almighty; and again his thoughts turned to that journey to Dauphine which haunted his memory.

“Ah! but the chain of the High Alps and the peaks of La Salette,” said he to himself; “that huge white hotel, that church coloured with dirty yellow lime-wash, vaguely Byzantine and vaguely Romanesque in its architecture, and that little cell with the plaster Christ nailed to a flat black wooden Cross—­that tiny Sanctuary plainly white-washed, and so small that one could step across it in any direction—­they were pregnant with her presence, all the same!”