It was a
miniature arch of plastered or whitewashed stone, and contained, as
nearly as I could judge from the glimpse I had in passing, two coarse
dolls, intended to represent the Virgin and Child.
"What is that, Auguste?" I asked, with feigned ignorance.
"A place of worship," he answered; "the people come there to pray."
"But what do they come _there_ for?" I continued.
"_God is there_," he answered, with emphasis, pointing at the same time
to the gayly dressed puppets.
"No, He is not," I replied.
He turned round and looked at me defiantly. His mild face became that
of a fanatic, and I actually quailed beneath his angry eye, as he
retorted,--
"He _is_ there."
My mistake flashed upon me, too, at the instant, and I hastened to
explain myself in the simplest manner my poor French would allow,
saying,--
_"Oui, Auguste, Il est la, c'est vrai; mais Il est la aussi!"_--and I
pointed to the snow-capped mountains on my right,--_"et la!"_--and I
waved my hand towards the deeply shadowed heights on the opposite side
of the valley.
He caught my meaning as by an inspiration. His fierce frown melted
instantly into an intelligent smile.
_"Il est partout!"_ exclaimed the youth, with enthusiasm, his childlike,
eager eyes seeking a response in mine.
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