to help herself to a final handful of money.
She was in a hurry to get before the church, near the stone-benches where the poor assembled in the morning; God’s house sheltered them from the north winds; the sun, when it rose, cast its rays right on the porch. She had to stop again. At the corner of an alley, she found a young woman who had no doubt passed the night there, she was so chilled and shivering with cold; with closed eyes, her arms pressed against her breast, she seemed asleep, hoping for nothing but death. Sister-of-the-poor stood before her with her hand full of sous, not knowing how to bestow her charity upon her. She wept, thinking she had come too late.
“Good woman,” she said, and she touched her softly on the shoulder, “look, take this money. You must go and breakfast at the inn and have a sleep before a big fire.”
At that sweet voice, the good woman opened her eyes and held out her hands. She, perhaps, thought she was still sleeping, and dreaming that an angel had descended beside her.
Sister-of-the-poor hurried to the great square. There was a crowd there under the porch awaiting the first ray of sunshine. The beggars, seated at the feet of the saints, were shivering with cold and huddled against one another without speaking. They were slowly rolling their heads as the dying do. They crowded in the corners, so as not to lose any of the sun, when it made its appearance.
Sister-of-the-poor began on the right, throwing handfuls of sous into the felt hats and the aprons, and with such good heart that many of the pieces rolled on the pavement. The dear child did not count. The little sack performed wonders; it would not become empty, it swelled out so at each fresh handful the young girl took from it, that it overflowed like a vase which is too full. The poor people stood dumbfounded at this delightful windfall: they picked up the sous that fell, forgetting the sun that was rising, and repeating hurriedly: “God will give it you back.” The charity was so bountiful that some good old fellows fancied the stone saints were throwing them this fortune; and they even still believe so.
The child laughed at their delight. She went three times round, so as to give the same sum to each; then she stopped; not because the little bag was empty, but because she had much to do before evening. As she was about to go away, she perceived a crippled old man in a corner, who, being unable to advance, extended his hands towards her. Feeling sorry at not having seen him, she advanced and tilted up the bag so as to give him more. The sous began to run from this miserable-looking purse like water from a spring without stopping, and so abundantly that Sister-of-the-poor soon closed the opening with her fist, for the heap would have risen in a few minutes as high as the church. The poor old man would not have known what to do with so much wealth, and perhaps the rich would have come and robbed him.
IV
Then, when those on the grand square had their pockets full, she set out towards the country. The beggars, forgetting to comfort themselves, began to follow her; they gazed at her in astonishment and respect, borne along by an outburst of brotherly feeling. She, standing alone, looking round about her, advanced the first. The crowd came afterwards.
The child, dressed in a ragged printed calico gown, was indeed a sister to the poor people who formed her suite, sister by her rags and sister by tender pity. She found herself there in a family gathering, giving to her brothers, forgetting herself; she walked along gravely with all the strength of her little feet, happy to act the big girl; and this little fair thing of ten, followed by her escort of old men, was beaming with naïve majesty.
With her narrow purse in her hand, she went from village to village distributing charity throughout the country. She advanced without picking her way, taking the roads of the plains and the paths of the hills. Sometimes she turned aside, crossing the fields to see if some vagabond were not sheltered beneath the hedges or in the hollow of the ditches. She stood on tip-toe, gazing at the horizon, regretful that she was unable to call all the poverty of the neighbourhood around her. She sighed when she reflected that she was perhaps leaving some one in suffering behind her; it was that thought that made her sometimes retrace her footsteps to examine a bush. And, whether she slackened her speed at bends in the roads, or ran forward to meet some person in want, her retinue followed her wherever she went.
And so it happened that as she was crossing a meadow, a flight of sparrows swooped down before her. The poor little creatures, lost in the snow, chirped in a lamentable way, asking for the food they had sought for in vain. Sister-of-the-poor stopped, taken aback at meeting unfortunates to whom her big sous could be of no assistance; she gazed at her bag in anger, execrating the money which could not be employed in charity of this kind. In the meanwhile the sparrows surrounded her; they said they belonged to the family, and asked for their share of her favours. Ready to burst out sobbing, not knowing what to do, she drew a handful of sous from the bag, for she could not make up her mind to dismiss them with nothing. The dear child had assuredly lost her head, imagining big sous were sparrows’ money, and that these children of God have millers to grind and bakers to knead their daily bread. I know not what she thought of doing, but the fact is that the charity which was given out in handfuls of sous, fell in handfuls of corn on the ground.
Sister-of-the-poor did not seem surprised. She gave the sparrows a regular feast, offering them all sorts of grain, and in such quantity that when spring came, the meadow was covered with grass as thick and high as a forest Since then, that corner of the earth has belonged to the birds of the air; they find abundance of food there in all seasons, notwithstanding that they come by thousands, from more than twenty leagues around.
Sister-of-the-poor resumed her walk, delighted at her new power. She no longer limited herself to distributing big sous. According to the people she met, she gave good smocks, which were very warm, thick woollen petticoats, or boots that were so light and tough that they barely weighed an ounce and yet wore down the stones. All this came from an unknown factory. The materials were wonderfully strong and flexible; the seams were so finely sewn, that in the hole which one of our own needles would have made, magic needles had easily found room for three of their stitches; and the most extraordinary thing was that each article of clothing fitted the poor person who put it on. No doubt a workshop of good fairies had been established at the bottom of the bag, and they had brought a pair of fine gold scissors, which cut ten cherubs’ gowns out of a roseleaf. It was, certainly, heavenly labour, for the work was so perfect and so quickly sewn.
The little bag showed no pride on that account. The opening was slightly worn, and the hand of Sister-of-the-poor had perhaps enlarged it a little; it might now have the dimensions of a couple of linnets’ nests. In order that you may not charge me with telling fibs, I must explain to you how the large articles of clothing came out of it, such as petticoats and cloaks five or six yards wide. The truth is, they were folded up like the flower of the poppy before it has burst from the calyx; and they were folded so cleverly that they were no bigger than the bud of that flower. Then Sister-of-the-poor took the packet between two fingers and slightly shook it. The material was unfolded, extended in length, and became a garment, no longer any good for angels, but suitable for broad shoulders. As to the shoes, I have never been able to ascertain up to this day in what form they left the sack. I have, however, heard say, although I affirm nothing, that each pair was enclosed in a bean, which burst open on touching the ground. And all that, of course, did not interfere with the handfuls of big sous which fell as thick as hail in March Sister-of-the-poor continued walking. She did not feel fatigued, although she had done more than twenty leagues since the morning, without eating or drinking. To observe her passing along the roads, leaving hardly a trace of her footsteps, one would have said she was borne along by invisible wings. She had been seen that day at the four corners of the neighbourhood. You would not have found an angle of land, plain or mountain, where the slight imprint of her little feet was not marked in the snow. In truth, if Guillaume and Guillaumette were pursuing her, they risked running a whole week before catching her. Not that there was any reason to hesitate about the road she took, for she left a crowd behind her, as kings do on their way; but because she
