Several Bishops were there again, listening to the talk of the doctors,
and the description of certain cases on previous days. Père Salvator,
the Capuchin, was there again; as also the tall bearded Assumptionist
Father of whom I have spoken. But there was not a great deal of interest
or excitement. I had the pleasure of talking a while with the Bishop of
Tarbes, who introduced me again to the Capuchin, and retold his story.

But I was a little unhappy. The miracle was that I was not more so. I
had expected so much: I had seen nothing.

I talked to Dr. Cox also before leaving.

"No," he told me, "there is hardly one miracle to-day. We are doubtful,
too, about that leg that was seven centimetres too short."

"And is it true that Mademoiselle Bardou is not cured?" (A doctor had
been giving us certain evidence a few minutes before).

"I am afraid so. It was probably a case of intense subjective
excitement. But it may be an amelioration. We do not know yet. The real
work of investigating comes afterwards."

How arbitrary it all seemed, I thought, as I walked home to dinner. That
morning, on my way from the Bureau, I had seen a great company of white
banners moving together; and, on inquiry, had found that these were the
_miraculés_ chiefly of previous years--about three hundred and fifty in
number.[6] They formed a considerably large procession. I had looked at
their faces: there were many more women than men (as there were upon
Calvary). But as I watched them I could not conceive upon what principle
the Supernatural had suddenly descended on this and not on that. "Two