Germaine, an unsightly child with withered hands and scrofulous neck, had but French and faith, the Angelus and self-mortification as her daily joys. A girl, in short, of the times. Streams parted before her, roses spilled from her lap, and God was so pleased with the miserable creature that He called her to heaven before she could kiss the sixteenth century goodbye. The night sky pierced by His radiance as virgins led the villagers to the barn where the body lay. Magnificent in death as in deprivation, she defied decay through the ages, till the Reign of Terror and quicklime finally did the trick.
