As he did so a
soldier raised a heavy stick to throw at him; but the girl caught
him by the arms, and said, with a hoarse pathos, "My God, no,
Alphonse! It is my brother!"
Here Mathilde, still holding out the cross, said in a loud
whisper, "'Sh, 'sh! My children, go not to the palace, for there
is Francois Bigot, and he has a devil. But if you have no cottage,
I will give you a home. I know the way to it up in the hills.
Poor children, see, I will make you happy."
She took a dozen little wooden crosses from her girdle, and,
stepping round the circle, gave each person one. No man refused,
save a young militiaman; and when, with a sneering laugh, he threw
his into the fire, she stooped over him and said, "Poor boy! poor
boy!"
She put her fingers on her lips, and whispered, "Beati
immaculati--miserere mei, Deus," stray phrases gathered from
the liturgy, pregnant to her brain, order and truth flashing out of
wandering and fantasy. No one of the girls refused, but sat there,
some laughing nervously, some silent; for this mad maid had come
to be surrounded with a superstitious reverence in the eyes of the
common people. It was said she had a home in the hills somewhere,
to which she disappeared for days and weeks, and came back hung
about the girdle with crosses; and it was also said that her red
robe never became frayed, shabby, or disordered.
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