This man was not good. He was idle and vain, and amorous and cold, and
had been spoiled by the world in which he had passed his days; but he had
the temper of an artist: he had something, too, of a poet's fancy; he
was vaguely touched and won by this simple soul that looked at him out of
Bebee's eyes with some look that in all its simplicity had a divine gleam
in it that made him half ashamed.
He had known women by the thousand, good women and bad; women whom he had
dealt ill with and women who had dealt ill with him; but this he had not
known--this frank, fearless, tender, gay, grave, innocent, industrious
little life, helping itself, feeding itself, defending itself, working
for itself and for others, and vaguely seeking all the while some unseen
light, some unknown god, with a blind faith so infinitely ignorant and
yet so infinitely pathetic.
"All the people are gone on a pilgrimage," she explained to him when he
asked her why her village was so silent this bright morning. "They are
gone to pray for a fine harvest, and that she wants herself as well--it
costs seven francs apiece.
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