de Guersaint were smiling at her; and M. Sabathier, who had
heard her, slowly said: "It is quite true. We leave a little of ourselves
in things, a little of our sufferings and our hopes, and when we find
them again they speak to us, and once more tell us the things which
sadden us or make us gay."
He had remained in his corner silent, with an air of resignation, ever
since their departure from Lourdes. Even his wife whilst wrapping up his
legs had only been able to obtain sundry shakes of the head from him in
response to her inquiries whether he was suffering. In point of fact he
was not suffering, but extreme dejection was overcoming him.
"Thus for my own part," he continued, "during our long journey from Paris
I tried to divert my thoughts by counting the bands in the roofing up
there. There were thirteen from the lamp to the door. Well, I have just
been counting them again, and naturally enough there are still thirteen.
It's like that brass knob beside me. You can't imagine what dreams I had
whilst I watched it shining at night-time when Monsieur l'Abbe was
reading the story of Bernadette to us. Yes, I saw myself cured; I was
making that journey to Rome which I have been talking of for twenty years
past; I walked and travelled the world--briefly, I had all manner of wild
and delightful dreams.
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