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was listening.

"Is it not so, Monsieur l'Abbe?" continued M. Sabathier. "Is not

suffering the best awakener of souls? This is the seventh year that I am

going to Lourdes without despairing of cure. This year the Blessed Virgin

will cure me, I feel sure of it. Yes, I expect to be able to walk about

again; I now live solely in that hope."

M. Sabathier paused, he wished his wife to push his legs a little more to

the left; and Pierre looked at him, astonished to find such obstinate

faith in a man of intellect, in one of those university professors who,

as a rule, are such Voltairians. How could the belief in miracles have

germinated and taken root in this man's brain? As he himself said, great

suffering alone explained this need of illusion, this blossoming of

eternal and consolatory hope.

"And my wife and I," resumed the ex-professor, "are dressed, you see, as

poor folks, for I wished to go as a mere pauper this year, and applied

for _hospitalisation_ in a spirit of humility in order that the Blessed

Virgin might include me among the wretched, her children--only, as I did

not wish to take the place of a real pauper, I gave fifty francs to the

Hospitalite, and this, as you are aware, gives one the right to have a

patient of one's own in the pilgrimage. I even know my patient. He was

introduced to me at the railway station. He is suffering from

tuberculosis, it appears, and seemed to me very low, very low."

A fresh interval of silence ensued. "Well," said M. Sabathier at last,

"may the Blessed Virgin save him also, she who can do everything. I shall

be so happy; she will have loaded me with favours."

Then the three men, isolating themselves from the others, went on

conversing together, at first on medical subjects, and at last diverging

into a discussion on romanesque architecture, _a propos_ of a steeple

which they had perceived on a hillside, and which every pilgrim had

saluted with a sign of the cross. Swayed once more by the habits of

cultivated intellect, the young priest and his two companions forgot

themselves together in the midst of their fellow-passengers, all those

poor, suffering, simple-minded folk, whom wretchedness stupefied. Another

hour went by, two more canticles had just been sung, and the stations of

Toury and Les Aubrais had been left behind, when, at Beaugency, they at

last ceased their chat, on hearing Sister Hyacinthe clap her hands and

intonate in her fresh, sonorous voice:

"_Parce, Domine, parce populo tuo_."

And then the chant went on; all voices became mingled in that

ever-surging wave of prayer which stilled pain, excited hope, and little

by little penetrated the entire being, harassed by the haunting thought

of the grace and cure which one and all were going to seek so far away.

However, as Pierre sat down again, he saw that Marie was very pale, and

had her eyes closed. By the painful contraction of her features he could

tell that she was not asleep. "Are you in great suffering?" he asked.

"Yes, yes, I suffer dreadfully. I shall never last to the end. It is this

incessant jolting."

She moaned, raised her eyelids, and, half-fainting, remained in a sitting

posture, her eyes turned on the other sufferers. In the adjoining

compartment, La Grivotte, hitherto stretched out, scarce breathing, like

a corpse, had just raised herself up in front of M. Sabathier. She was a

tall, slip-shod, singular-looking creature of over thirty, with a round,

ravaged face, which her frizzy hair and flaming eyes rendered almost

pretty. She had reached the third stage of phthisis.

"Eh, mademoiselle," she said, addressing herself in a hoarse, indistinct

voice to Marie, "how nice it would be if we could only doze off a little.

But it can't be managed; all these wheels keep on whirling round and

round in one's head."

Then, although it fatigued her to speak, she obstinately went on talking,

volunteering particulars about herself. She was a mattress-maker, and

with one of her aunts had long gone from yard to yard at Bercy to comb

and sew up mattresses. And, indeed, it was to the pestilential wool which

she had combed in her youth that she ascribed her malady. For five years

she had been making the round of the hospitals of Paris, and she spoke

familiarly of all the great doctors. It was the Sisters of Charity, at

the Lariboisiere hospital, who, finding that she had a passion for

religious ceremonies, had completed her conversion, and convinced her

that the Virgin awaited her at Lourdes to cure her.

"I certainly need it," said she. "The doctors say that I have one lung

done for, and that the other one is scarcely any better. There are great

big holes you know. At first I only felt bad between the shoulders and

spat up some froth. But then I got thin, and became a dreadful sight. And

now I'm always in a sweat, and cough till I think I'm going to bring my

heart up. And I can no longer spit. And I haven't the strength to stand,

you see. I can't eat."

A stifling sensation made her pause, and she became livid.

"All the same I prefer being in my skin instead of in that of the Brother

in the compartment behind you. He has the same complaint as I have, but

he is in a worse state that I am."

She was mistaken. In the farther compartment, beyond Marie, there was

indeed a young missionary, Brother Isidore, who was lying on a mattress

and could not be seen, since he was unable to raise even a finger. But he

was not suffering from phthisis. He was dying of inflammation of the

liver, contracted in Senegal. Very long and lank, he had a yellow face,

with skin as dry and lifeless as parchment. The abscess which had formed

in his liver had ended by breaking out externally, and amidst the

continuous shivering of fever, vomiting, and delirium, suppuration was

exhausting him. His eyes alone were still alive, eyes full of

unextinguishable love, whose flame lighted up his expiring face, a

peasant face such as painters have given to the crucified Christ, common,

but rendered sublime at moments by its expression of faith and passion.

He was a Breton, the last puny child of an over-numerous family, and had

left his little share of land to his elder brothers. One of his sisters,

Marthe, older than himself by a couple of years, accompanied him. She had

been in service in Paris, an insignificant maid-of-all-work, but withal

so devoted to her brother that she had left her situation to follow him,

subsisting scantily on her petty savings.

"I was lying on the platform," resumed La Grivotte, "when he was put in

the carriage. There were four men carrying him--"

But she was unable to speak any further, for just then an attack of

coughing shook her and threw her back upon the seat. She was suffocating,

and the red flush on her cheek-bones turned blue. Sister Hyacinthe,

however, immediately raised her head and wiped her lips with a linen

cloth, which became spotted with blood. At the same time Madame de

Jonquiere gave her attention to a patient in front of her, who had just

fainted. She was called Madame Vetu, and was the wife of a petty

clockmaker of the Mouffetard district, who had not been able to shut up

his shop in order to accompany her to Lourdes. And to make sure that she

would be cared for she had sought and obtained _hospitalisation_. The

fear of death was bringing her back to religion, although she had not set

foot in church since her first communion. She knew that she was lost,

that a cancer in the chest was eating into her; and she already had the

haggard, orange-hued mark of the cancerous patient. Since the beginning

of the journey she had not spoken a word, but, suffering terribly, had

remained with her lips tightly closed. Then all at once, she had swooned

away after an attack of vomiting.

"It is unbearable!" murmured Madame de Jonquiere, who herself felt faint;

"we must let in a little fresh air."

Sister Hyacinthe was just then laying La Grivotte to rest on her pillows,

"Certainly," said she, "we will open the window for a few moments. But

not on this side, for I am afraid we might have a fresh fit of coughing.

Open the window on your side, madame."

The heat was still increasing, and the occupants of the carriage were

stifling in that heavy evil-smelling atmosphere. The pure air which came

in when the window was opened brought relief however. For a moment there

were other duties to be attended to, a clearance and cleansing. The

Sister emptied the basins out of the window, whilst the lady-hospitaller

wiped the shaking floor with a sponge. Next, things had to be set in

order; and then came a fresh anxiety, for the fourth patient, a slender

girl whose face was entirely covered by a black fichu, and who had not

yet moved, was saying that she felt hungry.

With quiet devotion Madame de Jonquiere immediately tendered her

services. "Don't you trouble, Sister," she said, "I will cut her bread

into little bits for her."

Marie, with the need she felt of diverting her mind from her own

sufferings, had already begun to take an interest in that motionless

sufferer whose countenance was so thickly veiled, for she not unnaturally

suspected that it was a case of some distressing facial sore. She had

merely been told that the patient was a servant, which was true, but it

happened that the poor creature, a native of Picardy, named Elise

Rouquet, had been obliged to leave her situation, and seek a home with a

sister who ill-treated her, for no hospital would take her in. Extremely

devout, she had for many months been possessed by an ardent desire to go

to Lourdes.

While Marie, with dread in her heart, waited for the fichu to be moved

aside, Madame de Jonquiere, having cut some bread into small pieces,

inquired maternally: "Are they small enough? Can you put them into your

mouth?"

Thereupon a hoarse voice growled confused words under the black fichu:

"Yes, yes, madame." And at last the veil fell and Marie shuddered with

horror.

It was a case of lupus which had preyed upon the unhappy woman's nose and

mouth. Ulceration had spread, and was hourly spreading--in short, all the

hideous peculiarities of this terrible disease were in full process of

development, almost obliterating the traces of what once were pleasing

womanly lineaments.

"Oh, look, Pierre!" Marie murmured, trembling. The priest in his turn

shuddered as he beheld Elise Rouquet cautiously slipping the tiny pieces

of bread into her poor shapeless mouth. Everyone in the carriage had

turned pale at sight of the awful apparition. And the same thought

ascended from all those hope-inflated souls. Ah! Blessed Virgin, Powerful

Virgin, what a miracle indeed if such an ill were cured!

"We must not think of ourselves, my children, if we wish to get well,"

resumed Sister Hyacinthe, who still retained her encouraging smile.

And then she made them say the second chaplet, the five sorrowful

mysteries: Jesus in the Garden of Olives, Jesus scourged, Jesus crowned

with thorns, Jesus carrying the cross, and Jesus crucified. Afterwards

came the canticle: "In thy help, Virgin, do I put my trust."

They had just passed through Blois; for three long hours they had been

rolling onward; and Marie, who had averted her eyes from Elise Rouquet,

now turned them upon a man who occupied a corner seat in the compartment

on her left, that in which Brother Isidore was lying. She had noticed

this man several times already. Poorly clad in an old black frock-coat,

he looked still young, although his sparse beard was already turning

grey; and, short and emaciated, he seemed to experience great suffering,

his fleshless, livid face being covered with sweat. However, he remained

motionless, ensconced in his corner, speaking to nobody, but staring

straight before him with dilated eyes. And all at once Marie noticed that

his eyelids were falling, and that he was fainting away.

She thereupon drew Sister's Hyacinthe's attention to him: "Look, Sister!

One would think that that gentleman is dangerously ill."

"Which one, my dear child?"

"That one, over there, with his head thrown back."

General excitement followed, all the healthy pilgrims rose up to look,

and it occurred to Madame de Jonquiere to call to Marthe, Brother

Isidore's sister, and tell her to tap the man's hands.

"Question him," she added; "ask what ails him."

Marthe drew near, shook the man, and questioned him.

But instead of an answer only a rattle came from his throat, and his eyes

remained closed.

Then a frightened voice was heard saying, "I think he is going to die."

The dread increased, words flew about, advice was tendered from one to

the other end of the carriage. Nobody knew the man. He had certainly not

obtained _hospitalisation_, for no white card was hanging from his neck.

Somebody related, however, that he had seen him arrive, dragging himself

along, but three minutes or so before the train started; and that he had

remained quite motionless, scarce breathing, ever since he had flung

himself with an air of intense weariness into that corner, where he was

now apparently dying. His ticket was at last seen protruding from under

the band of an old silk hat which was hung from a peg near him.

"Ah, he is breathing again now!" Sister Hyacinthe suddenly exclaimed.

"Ask him his name."

However, on being again questioned by Marthe, the man merely gave vent to

a low plaint, an exclamation scarcely articulated, "Oh, how I suffer!"

And thenceforward that was the only answer that could be obtained from

him. With reference to everything that they wished to know, who he was,

whence he came, what his illness was, what could be done for him, he gave

no information, but still and ever continued moaning, "Oh, how I

suffer--how I suffer!"

Sister Hyacinthe grew restless with impatience. Ah, if she had only been