As Veronique advanced majestically with her naturally fine and graceful step, Madame Sauviat, driven by despair at the thought of surviving her daughter, allowed the secret of many things that awakened curiosity to escape her.

“How can she walk like that,” she cried, “wearing a horrible horsehair shirt, which pricks into her skin perpetually?”

The words horrified the young man, who was not insensible to the exquisite grace of Veronique’s movements; he shuddered as he thought of the constant and terrific struggle of the soul to maintain its empire thus over the body.

“She has worn it thirteen years,—­ever since she ceased to nurse the boy,” said the old woman.  “She has done miracles here, but if her whole life were known they ought to canonize her.  Since she came to Montegnac no one has ever seen her eat, and do you know why?  Aline serves her three times a day a piece of dry bread, and vegetables boiled in water, without salt, on a common plate of red earth like those they feed the dogs on.  Yes, that’s how the woman lives who has given new life to this whole canton.  She kneels to say her prayers on the edge of that hair-shirt.  She says she could not have that smiling air you know she always has unless she practised these austerities.  I tell you this,” added the old woman, sinking her voice, “so that you may repeat it to the doctor that Monsieur Roubaud has gone to fetch.  If they could prevent my daughter from continuing these penances, perhaps they might still save her, though death has laid its hand upon her head.  See for yourself!  Ah!  I must be strong indeed to have borne so many things these fifteen years.”

The old woman took her grandson’s hand and passed it over her forehead and cheeks as if the child’s touch shed a healing balm there; then she kissed it with an affection the secret of which belongs to grandmothers as much as it belongs to mothers.

Veronique was now only a few feet from the bench, in company with Clousier, the rector, and Gerard.  Illuminated by the glow of the setting sun, she shone with a dreadful beauty.  Her yellow forehead, furrowed with long wrinkles massed one above the other like layers of clouds, revealed a fixed thought in the midst of inward troubles.  Her face, devoid of all color, entirely white with the dead, greenish whiteness of plants without light, was thin, though not withered, and bore the signs of terrible physical sufferings produced by mental anguish.  She fought her soul with her body, and vice versa.  She was so completely destroyed that she no more resembled herself than an old woman resembles her portrait as a girl.  The ardent expression of her eyes declared the despotic empire exercised by a devout will over a body reduced to what religion requires it to be.  In this woman the soul dragged the flesh as the Achilles of profane story dragged Hector; for fifteen years she dragged it victoriously along the stony paths of life around the celestial Jerusalem she hoped to