want to be like Jan — unless He would prefer me to be
like Jan — and then ask Him to forgive me for stealing
the ointment.9 ^ In this wise Christophe humbled
himself to the saint who had raised a nightingale from
the dead — that is if one may credit tradition.
Who can know why Saint Loup failed to answer
that prayer? Perhaps he was very much occupied
with matters pertaining to more grievous sinners. Be
that as it may, Christophers prayer went unheard
and Mireio's condition remained unaltered. Then
Christophe completely lost faith in Saint Loup, and he
thought very bitterly indeed about him: {I do not
believe that he loved little birds — I do not believe
in his nightingale legend. I do not believe, no, I do
not believe! It is time that I tried to find someone
kinder.' And all of a sudden he remembered the wolf
that, repenting itself of its erstwhile sins, had become
as a faithful dog to Saint Francis.
So now night and morning that merciful saint
whose hands and feet bore the blessed stigmata,
that saint must lean down from the shining throne
upon which his suppliant visualized him, the better to
listen to stumbling prayers which were growing
more and more incoherent. And the night came when
Christophe went to Mireio but discarded the jar of
his precious ointment, when he just sat still with her
head on his lap, talking softly but earnestly under his
breath, for he thought that his voice and his presence
soothed her. And believing that Mireio could com-
prehend words, he told her, quite simply, the story
of Saint Francis; the story of The little poor Man of
God, who having neither purse, nor cloak, nor shoes,
had yet given to his lesser brethren a gift that must
always be beyond price — the gift of a pitiful under-
standing,
'And so,5 said Christophe, 'y°u nced not feel afraid,
for soon this terrible pain will have left you. I cannot
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