“There’s a picture of a little girl there, uncle, who isn’t pretty pretty either. What use can it be to you?”
Surprised at finding a Christian capable of such pointed repartee and doubtless of such good sense too, Uncle Anthime was for a moment taken aback. But he really couldn’t embark on a metaphysical argument with a little girl of nine years old. He smiled. The child made use of her advantage immediately, and, holding out her little sacred images:
“This,” said she, “is my patron saint, St. Julia; and this, the Sacred Heart of Our....”
“And haven’t you got one of God?” interrupted Anthime absurdly.
The child answered with perfect simplicity:
“No, people don’t make any of God. But this is the prettiest—Our Lady of Lourdes. Aunt Fleurissoire gave it to me; she brought it back from Lourdes; I put it round my neck the day that Papa and Mamma offered me to the Virgin.”
This was too much for Anthime. Without attempting for a moment to understand all the ineffable loveliness that such images call up—the month of May, the white and blue procession of children—he gave way to his crazy desire to blaspheme.
“So the Holy Virgin didn’t want to have anything to do with you, since you are still with us?”
The child made no answer. Did she realise already that the best answer to certain impertinences is to say nothing? As a matter of fact, after this senseless question, it was not Julie, it was the unbeliever that blushed; and then, to hide this moment of confusion—this slight qualm which ever secretly accompanies impropriety—the uncle pressed a respectful and atoning kiss on his niece’s candid brow.
“Why do you pretend to be so naughty, Uncle Anthime?”