“That is strange!” said Pierre with a laugh,—­“To be under the displeasure of the Pope for doing a good deed!”

“Truly, it seems so,” agreed Patoux,—­“But you must remember there was no paying shrine concerned in it!  Mark you that, my Pierre!  Even our Lady of Bon Secours, near to Rouen as she is, was not applied to.  The miracle took place in the poor habitation of an unknown little inn-keeper,—­that is myself,—­and there was no solemnity at all about it—­no swinging of incense—­no droning of prayers—­no lighting of candles—­no anything, but just a good old man with a crippled child on his knee, praying to the Christ whom he believed was able to help him.  And—­and—­”

He broke off suddenly and crossed himself.  Pierre Midon stared at the action.

“What ails thee, Jean?” he asked brusquely,—­“Hast thou remembered a dead sin, or a passing soul?”

“Neither,” replied Patoux slowly, “But only just the thought of another child—­a waif and stray whom the good Cardinal found in the streets of Rouen, outside our great Cathedral door.  A gentle lad!—­ my wife was greatly taken with him;—­and he was present in my house too, when the miracle of healing was performed.”

“And for that, is there any need to cross thyself like a mumbling old woman afraid of the devil?” enquired his cousin.

Patoux smiled a slow smile.

“Gently, Pierre—­gently!” he said.  “Thou art of Paris,—­I of the provinces.  That makes all the difference in the way we look at life.  There are very few holy things in great cities,—­but there are many in the country.  Every day when I am at home I go out of the town to work in my field,—­and I feel the clean breath of the wind, the scent of the earth and the colours of the sky and the flowers,—­and I know quite well there is a God, or these blessings could not be.  For if there were only Chance and a Man to manage the universe, a pretty muddle we should have of it!  And when I see or think of a holy thing, I sign the cross out of old childhood’s habit,—­so just now, when I remembered the boy whom the Cardinal rescued from the streets, I knew I was thinking of a holy thing; and that explains my action.”

“How dost thou prove a waif of the streets a holy thing?” enquired Pierre curiously.

Patoux shrugged his shoulders, and gave a wide deprecatory wave of both hands.

“Ah, that is more than I can tell you!” he said,—­“It is a matter beyond my skill.  But the boy was a fair-faced boy,—­I never saw him myself—­”

Midon laughed outright.

“Never saw him thyself!” he cried,—­“And yet thou dost make the sign of the cross at the thought of him!  Diantre!  Patoux, thou art crazy!”

“Maybe—­maybe,” said Patoux mildly,—­they were walking together out of the cemetery by this time in the wake of the rapidly dispersing crowd,—­“But I have always taken my wife’s word,—­and I take it now.  And she has said over and over again to me that the boy had a rare sweet nature.  And then—­the child whom the Cardinal healed,—­Fabien Doucet,—­will always insist upon it that it was the touch of that same boy which truly cured him and not the Cardinal at all!”