Three months later, he was in the house of the curate of St. Anne, a cousin of his, and he showed him the picture he intended to exhibit in the church next day. But, to his surprise and grief, his older relative, instead of sharing his belief, laughed heartily at his folly, asking him how he, as a man of sense, could possibly believe in such a miracle. Chiniquy reminded him of all the crutches hanging in St. Anne's Church, belonging to the cripples she had cured, which remark gave rise to another burst of laughter on the curate's part. But, sobering down, he seriously declared that, having carefully watched these so-called cures, he had found that ninety-nine out of every hundred were impostures, the hundredth one being an honest belief, but a superstitious and fancied one. These pretended cripples were nearly always lazy beggars, who knew that their seeming lameness would get them pity and money, and, when tired of that game, they would make a begging tour, telling all their helpers that they were going to the church of St. Anne, to pray for the use of their legs. They at last arrive there, pay from one to five dollars to have a mass said for them, and then, in the midst of the ceremony, just as they receive the wafer, there is a cry of joy. They are cured, and they leave their crutches behind as witnesses of their cure. They then return, and tell all who will listen as they go along, receiving fresh gifts from them until they get home again, to take a farm and settle down with their dishonest gains. "Such," said the curate, "is the true history of the ninety-nine miracles. In the hundredth case the man is really cured, because he was really afflicted; but his nerves were wrought upon just as I was once cured of a dreadful toothache by seeing the dentist put his instrument on the table. I took my hat and left, and the dentist laughed heartily every time he met me afterwards. "One of the weakest points of our religion is the ridiculous miracles said to be wrought by the relics and bones of saints. For the most part, they are the bones of chickens or sheep; and were I a Pope, I would throw all these Pagan mummeries to the bottom of the sea, and would present to the eyes of sinners nothing but 'Christ and Him crucified' as the Object of their faith, just as the Apostles of Jesus do in their Epistles!" They talked together in this strain till two o'clock in the morning, and then Chiniquy was too puzzled and sad to sleep.