The General looked at her with a set expression derived from fifty years of mechanical respect, and gazed at her blue scarf as though it had been the flag of a friendly nation. He had always been looked upon as something of a mystic, and had considered a belief in the future life to be the very base and foundation-stone of military regulations. Age and ill-health were making a devotee of him. For some days past, though he did not betray it, he had been, if not worried, at any rate grieved, by the recent scandals. His simple-mindedness had taken fright at such a tumult of words and passions, and he was obsessed by vague misgivings. He sent up a voiceless prayer to Notre-Dame de Lourdes, imploring her protection for the French Army. All of them, the women, the Duke, the lawyer, and the priest, had by this time riveted their gaze upon the worn shoes of the motionless Honorine, and these sombre, solemn, solid folk fell into an ecstasy of admiration at the sight of the lithe young body, now stiff and rigid; M. Lerond, who prided himself on being very observant, made sundry observations. At last, however, Honorine came out of her trance. She rose to her feet, bowed to the altar, and turned round; then, as though astonished at the sight of so many people, stood stock still and brushed away with both hands the hair that had fallen over her eyes. “Well, my child, did you see the Blessed Virgin to-day?” asked Madame de Brécé. In the shrill sing-song voice of a child in the catechism class answering by rote, Honorine replied: “Yes, Madame. The good Virgin remained for one moment, then rolled up like a piece of calico, and I didn’t see her any more.” “Did she speak to you?” “Yes, Madame.” “What did she say?” “She said, ‘There is much misery in your home.’” “Is that all she said?” “She said, ‘There will be much misery in the country over the harvests and the cattle.’” “Did she not tell you to be good?” “‘Pray continually,’ she said to me, and then she said like this, ‘I greet you. There is much misery in your home.’” And the words of the child rang out in the imposing silence. “Was the Blessed Virgin very beautiful?” again questioned Madame de Brécé. “Yes, Madame. But one eye and one cheek were missing, because I had not prayed long enough.” “Had she a crown upon her head?” asked M. Lerond, who, as an ex-member of the magistracy, was inquisitive and fond of asking questions. Honorine hesitated, and then, with a cunning look, replied: “Her crown was on one side.” “Right or left?” asked M. Lerond. “Right and left,” answered Honorine. Madame de Brécé intervened: “What do you mean, my child, that it was first on the right and then on the left? Isn’t that what you mean?” But Honorine would not answer.