“Alas, Monseigneur!” she began plaintively—­“It is too shameful that your quiet should be disturbed in this way, but if you could only know the obstinacy of these children!  Ah yes!—­if you knew all, you would pity their parents!—­you would indeed!  And this is the unhappy little creature they have brought to you, Monseigneur,—­a sad sight truly!—­and afflicted sorely by the will of God,—­though one could hardly say that God was anywhere about when he fell, poor baby, from his mother’s cart and twisted his body awry,—­one would rather think the devil was in the business, asking your pardon, Monseigneur; for surely the turning of a human creature into a useless lump has little of good, or divine kindness in it!  Now make thy best bow to the Cardinal,” went on Madame with a gasp for breath in her voluble speech, addressing the little cripple—­” And it is a pity them hast no time to confess thy sins and take the Sacrament before so holy a man lay hands on thee!”

But at these words Cardinal Bonpre turned to her with a reproving gesture.

“I pray you do not call me holy, my daughter,” he said earnestly, the old shadows of pain and prote gathering in his eyes, “Nothing can make me more sorrowful than to hear such an epithet applied to one who is so full of errors and sins as myself.  Try to look upon me just as I am,—­merely an old man, nearing the grave, with nothing of merit in me beyond the desire to serve our Lord and obey His commands,—­a desire which is far stronger than the practical force to obey it.  Much that I would do I cannot; and in much that I attempt I fail.  Come to me, my child.”

Here, interrupting himself, he bent down, and putting his arms tenderly round Fabien, lifted him bodily, crutch and all, and carried him into the next room, and as he did so, the young Manuel glided in before him, and stood beside his chair, his blue eyes shining with a soft and eager light of interest, and a little smile lifting the delicate upper curve of his lips as he looked on.  Fabien meanwhile, perched on the Cardinal’s knee, and held close in the Cardinal’s arms, was not at all frightened,—­he simply sat, contented, gazing up confidingly at the pale venerable face above him.  Henri and Babette, having as they considered, got their way, stayed at the door half afraid to enter, and their mother peered over their heads at the little scene in mingled awe and curiosity.

“My poor child,” then said the Cardinal gently—­“I want you to understand quite clearly how sorry I am for you, and how willingly I would do anything in the world to make you a strong, well, and happy boy.  But you must not fancy that I can cure you.  I told your little friends yesterday that I was not a saint, such as you read about in story-books,—­and that I could not work miracles, because I am not worthy to be so filled with the Divine Spirit as to heal with a touch like the better servants of our Blessed Lord.  Nevertheless I firmly believe that if God saw that it was good for you to be strong and well, He would find ways to make you so.  Sometimes sickness and sorrow are sent to us for our advantage,—­sometimes even death comes to us for our larger benefit, though we may not understand how it is so till afterwards.  But in Heaven everything will be made clear; and even our griefs will be turned into joys,—­do you understand?”