She was pursued even into the
cloister through an irresistible desire to obtain favours from her
saintly person. Ah! to see her, touch her, become lucky by gazing on her
or surreptitiously rubbing some medal against her dress. It was the
credulous passion of fetishism, a rush of believers pursuing this poor
beatified being in the desire which each felt to secure a share of hope
and divine illusion. She wept at it with very weariness, with impatient
revolt, and often repeated: "Why do they torment me like this? What more
is there in me than in others?" And at last she felt real grief at thus
becoming "the raree-show," as she ended by calling herself with a sad,
suffering smile. She defended herself as far as she could, refusing to
see anyone. Her companions defended her also, and sometimes very sternly,
showing her only to such visitors as were authorised by the Bishop. The
doors of the Convent remained closed, and ecclesiastics almost alone
succeeded in effecting an entrance. Still, even this was too much for her
desire for solitude, and she often had to be obstinate, to request that
the priests who had called might be sent away, weary as she was of always
telling the same story, of ever answering the same questions. She was
incensed, wounded, on behalf of the Blessed Virgin herself.
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