A murmur of terror spread through the crowd; and when the unfortunate girl rose, pale and wild and breathless with horror, all drew back, shuddering, and let her pass. The thunder-clap had begun the storm; fearfully it burst afterwards over Roquefort; the belfry of St. Pierre was destroyed, and the hail driving over the country, swept all away but those who wept to see the ravage. And the pilgrims returned, all ready to relate the disaster they had seen; they returned all--except one--and sang _Ora pro nobis_. Then, to cross the perilous waters, Agen did not possess as now--to make other towns jealous--three great bridges, as though it were a royal town. Two simple barks, urged by two oars, carried persons from one side to the other; but scarcely have they reached the opposite shore, and formed themselves in lines, than the news of the terrible event reaches them. At first, they scarcely credit its extent; but when they advance, and behold the vines and the fields desolated, then they tremble and are seized with despair, and cries of "Misery!" and "Misfortune!" rend the air. Suddenly a voice exclaims, "Françonnette is saved while we are ruined!" the word acts like a spark to gunpowder. "The wretch!--drive her out!--she brings us evil--it is true--she is the cause of all--she may do us more harm!" And the crowd clamoured louder and grew more furious. One cried, "Let us drive her from us! cursed as she is, let her burn in flames like the _Huguenot_, her father!" The coldest became infuriated: "Let her be driven forth!" cried all. To see them thus enraged, with flaming eyes, clenched hands and teeth, it seemed as if Hell inspired them, and that its influence came with the breeze of night, and breathed into their veins the venom of fury. Where was Françonnette? alas! in her cottage, half-dead--cold as marble! holding firmly in her tightened and convulsive grasp the faded wreath given her by Pascal. "Poor garland!" said she; "when I received you from him your perfume told of happiness, and I inhaled it; relic of love! I bore you in my bosom, where you soon faded like my vain dreams. Dear Pascal, farewell! my torn heart weeps to resign thee, but I must say adieu for ever! I was born in an evil hour; and, to save thee from my influence, I must conceal my love. Yet I feel this day thou art dearer than ever; I love with an affection never to be extinguished--with a devotion which is bliss or death on earth; but death is nothing to me if it could save thee!" "Why do you moan thus, Françonnette?" cried out her grandmother; "you told me, with a cheerful air, that the Virgin had received your offering and you were content; yet I hear you sob like a soul in pain; you deceive me, something has happened to you to-day." "Oh, no; be content, grandmother; I am happy--very happy."