At last, with great difficulty, she was persuaded to be seated. But she stayed only a minute. The Maréchale turned to speak to somebody, and the old woman darted out of the hall. She was gone like a flash. "We won’t see _her_ again, Maréchale," said one of the officers. The Maréchale began to blame herself. Why did she not inspire the poor creature with confidence? Why could one not make her feel at rest? Why had she run away? She had seemed to suspect something. It was a sore disappointment. After some waiting, the girls began to come, and the tables filled up, but every time the door opened the Maréchale turned her eye towards it in the hope of seeing her old woman return. A gloom had been cast over her spirit because that woman had gone out, not believing that she was welcome, thinking she was too old and too ugly. The beautiful grace, "Nous Te benissons," was sung, prayer was offered, and sweet music filled the air while the plates were handed round. Some of the guests were pretty and some ugly, some young and some old, some clad in rags and some dressed in the height of fashion. Some poor famished creatures asked for a plate of meat four or five times, while others, having already supped, merely touched a little fruit with their dainty fingers and sipped a cup of black coffee. The supper was nearly ended, and the Maréchale was preparing to speak, when the door burst open, and in came our old woman, with a pretty young girl, fair as a lily, on one arm, and a dark one, equally young and beautiful, on the other. Up she came to the "Holy Virgin," with her dear old face radiant. "_Voilà_! I have gone and found them. It’s _these_ that you want! For me it is too late, but show them _the other side of the medal_." The Maréchale could not speak. Her eyes filled with tears. The words cut her through. The woman did not know what an act she had done, nor what an unforgettable phrase—_le revers de la médaille_—she had used. "I have spent a long time in seeking them," she said. "I _am_ pleased—_Je suis contente_." "And I, too, am happy," said the Maréchale, "but especially because you have come." "_Moi!_! for me it is finished. For me it is too late. But these—they are young, they are pretty, they have life before them. It is these that you want!" The three sat down, the Maréchale taking the old woman next to her. And she never served a cup of coffee with such pleasure in her life. In after years she would sometimes tell the story of that old woman on a Sunday morning to an English congregation, and then ask the searching question, "Which of you has ever spent two hours day or night seeking for a lost soul as she did?" *CHAPTER XI* *THE PRODIGAL SON*