Again she listened. There was no sound but the roar of the storm, the creak of the house, and the gnawing of the great rats in the timbers of the wall. She cringed and shivered, and in extreme entreaty cried, “Lord, Seigneur Dieu, preserve and spare my child! You see her young and fair, her soul as pure as the flowers that bloom in Paradise! You breathed into her life; by your law she was made; but for you she never had been; dare you then let her fall?” But all was still. Heaven, to mortal anguish, seems intolerably serene, so far beyond comprehension is the inscrutable leisure of God. It was taking too long for her sorrow to reach the foot of the throne. She was seeking her daughter’s safety, though it should be at the hazard of her soul; but all she had was the bitterness of unanswered supplication. To hearts dismayed there is nothing so appallingly still as God. The confident faithful may await the ultimate reply; but the desperate storm heaven, they have not time to wait. She beat her breast; her hair was moist; her garments disarrayed; her voice grew sharp; by vicars, saints and intercessors, by all intermediaries, she plead with Almighty God to listen and to reply. There was no answer. “Mary, Mother of Sorrows!” she gasped. “Does God not understand?” Her appeal arose piercing shrill: “_Dieu, Dieu, Eternel Dieu, écoute mes cris! Hâte-toi de ma secourir! Hâte-toi d’elle delivrer! O Toi, qui écoutes la prière, aie pitié de nous! Ne tarde-pas! Écoute, mes cris!_” She waited; there was no answer; and suddenly her voice went up like the cry of delirium: “_O Dieu Très-haut, réveille-toi! Réveille-toi, mon Dieu!_” Then in a tone of amazement and pathos, “Mary, Mother of Sorrows,” she said, “do I have to explain to God?” She paused a moment while despair rose like a swelling flood; then through the darkness and the night went up a bitter cry: “_Seigneur Dieu! Tout-puissant Dieu! sois attentif à ma prière: tu m’arrosarez avec l’hysope, et je serai purifiée; vous me laveras, et je deviendrai plus blanche que la neige! Plus blanche que la neige, mon Dieu! Plus blanche que la neige! Gabrielle, ma fille, mon Dieu! plus blanche que la neige!_ Forgive in her my transgressions; pardon in her my sins; deliver her from her inheritance.... O my God!... let her be white!” A tremendous gust blew through the house; the wind sucked in the chimney with a sound like awful laughter; the blinds recoiled with thunderous shock; but from Heaven there was no answer. At this she cried out pitifully as He who long ago cried out the cry, which through unending ages shall stand archetype of despair: “_Mon Dieu, mon Dieu! pourquoi m’as-tu abandonné?_”