Martine Doucet bounced up from her chair, and let fall her knitting.

“Me—­me!” she cried, “Me go to Rome!  Never!  Wild horses will not drag me there, nor shall you take my Fabien either!  What should I do in Rome?”

“Testify personally to the truth of the Cardinal’s miracle,” answered Cazeau, gazing coldly at her excited face as though he saw something altogether strange and removed from human semblance.  “And bring your child into the Holy Presence and relate his history.  It will be nothing but an advantage to you,—­for you will obtain a patient hearing, and the priceless boon of the Papal benediction!”

“Grand merci!” said Martine, “But I have lived more than half my time without the Papal benediction, and I can work out the rest of my days in the same way!  Look you!—­there is a great English Duke I am told, who has an only son sorely afflicted, and he has taken this son to every place in the world where the Church is supposed to work miracles for the healing of the sick and the helpless,—­all to no use, for the poor boy is as sick and helpless as ever.  How is that?  What has the Papal benediction done for him?”

“Woman, your tongue overrules your senses!” said Cazeau, with rising temper, “You rail against the Church like an ungrateful heathen, even though you owe your son’s recovery to the Church!  For what is Cardinal Bonpre but a Prince of the Church?”

Martine stuck her arms akimbo, and surveyed him disdainfully.

“Oh—­he!” she cried, “My tongue overrules my senses, Monsieur Clause Cazeau!  Take care that your cunning does not overrule yourself!  Did I ever deny the worth and the goodness of Cardinal Bonpre?  Though if I were to speak the whole truth, and if I were to believe the nonsense-talk of a child, I should perhaps give the credit of the miracle to the stray boy whom the Cardinal found outside the Cathedral door—­“Cazeau started—­“For Fabien says that he began to feel strong the moment that little lad touched him!”

“The boy!” exclaimed Cazeau—­“The boy!”

A curious silence ensued.  Jean Patoux lifting his drowsy eyes gazed fixedly at the whitewashed ceiling,—­Madame, his wife, stood beside him watching the changes on Cazeau’s yellow face—­and Martine sat down to take breath after her voluble outburst.

“The boy!” muttered Cazeau again—­then he broke into a harsh laugh.

“What folly!” he exclaimed, “As if a little tramp of the streets could have anything to do with a Church miracle!  Martine Doucet, if you were to say such a thing at the Vatican—­”

“I have not said it,” said Martine angrily, “I only told you what my Fabien says.  I am not answerable for the thoughts of the child!  That he is well and strong—­that he has the look and the soul of an angel, is enough for me to praise God all my life.  But I shall never say the Laus Deo at the Vatican,—­you will have no chance to trap me in that way!”