“Dear me!” said Cazeau blandly, turning with a smile and propitiatory air to Patoux who sat silently smoking, “Madame Doucet seems a little—­what shall we say?—­unduly excited?  Yet surely the recovery of her child should fill her with thanksgiving and make her a faithful and devout servant—­” “Pardon, Monsieur,” interrupted Madame Patoux, “Believe me, Martine is thankful enough, and devout enough,—­but truly it has been very hard for her to suffer the things that have been said to her of late,—­how that the child could never have been really crippled at all, but simply shamming,—­how that it was all a trick got up between herself and the priests for the purpose of bringing visitors and their money to Rouen,—­for of course since the miracle was noised abroad there have been many pilgrimages to Notre Dame, it having got about that there was some mysterious spirit or angel in one of the shrines,—­for look you, our Archbishop, when he came to visit the Cardinal here in this very hotel, distinctly remembers that His Eminence assured him he had heard strange music in the Cathedral, when truly there was no organ unlocked, and no organist on duty,—­and then there was something about the boy that His Eminence found lost that night . . .”

“Stop!  Stop!” said Cazeau, growing impatient, “Your eloquence is so impressive, Madame, and you say so much that is excellent in one breath, that you must pardon my inferior capacity in not being able to follow you quite coherently!  There are conflicting statements, you say—­”

“No, there are none,” said Patoux himself, drawing his pipe out of his mouth slowly, and looking intently at its well-sucked stem—­“It is all the same sort of thing.  A child is sick—­a child is cured—­ and it is either God or the Devil who has done it.  Some people prefer to think it is the Devil,—­some give the praise to God.  It was exactly like that whenever our Lord did a good deed.  Half the folks said he was God,—­the other half that he had a devil.  Jerusalem was like Rouen, Rouen is like Jerusalem.  Jerusalem was ancient and wicked; Rouen is modern and wickeder,—­that’s all!  As for music in the church, we have only the Archbishop’s warrant that the Cardinal ever said anything about hearing music.”

“‘Only’ the Archbishop’s warrant!” echoed Cazeau meaningly.

“I said ‘only’, Monsieur!—­Make the best of it!” answered Patoux, sticking his pipe into his mouth again, and resuming his smoke with undisturbed tranquillity.

Cazeau hummed and hawed,—­he was irritated yet vaguely amused too at the singular self-assertion of these common folk who presumed to take their moral measurement of an Archbishop!  It is a strange fact, but these same common folk always do take these sorts of measurements.

“The inconsistencies—­(if there are any—­) in the story will soon be cleared up,” he said, with a benevolent assumption of authority, “At least, I hope so!  I am glad to say that I am entrusted with a message to the Archbishop from our Holy Father, the Pope,—­and I have also His Holiness’s instructions to request you, Madame Doucet, together with your son Fabien, to accompany me back to Rome!”