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and seated herself on an adjoining bed; whence, without the slightest

sign of fear, but with her large eyes burning with curiosity, she began

to watch Madame Vetu's death agony. In her nervous state, Madame

Desagneaux was growing impatient at the delay in the doctor's arrival;

whilst Marie, still enraptured, and resplendent in the sunlight, seemed

unconscious of what was taking place about her, wrapt as she was in

delightful expectancy of the miracle.

Not having found Ferrand in the small apartment near the linen-room which

he usually occupied, Sister Hyacinthe was now searching for him all over

the building. During the past two days the young doctor had become more

bewildered than ever in that extraordinary hospital, where his assistance

was only sought for the relief of death pangs. The small medicine-chest

which he had brought with him proved quite useless; for there could be no

thought of trying any course of treatment, as the sick were not there to

be doctored, but simply to be cured by the lightning stroke of a miracle.

And so he mainly confined himself to administering a few opium pills, in

order to deaden the severer sufferings. He had been fairly amazed when

accompanying Doctor Bonamy on a round through the wards. It had resolved

itself into a mere stroll, the doctor, who had only come out of

curiosity, taking no interest in the patients, whom he neither questioned

nor examined. He solely concerned himself with the pretended cases of

cure, stopping opposite those women whom he recognised from having seen

them at his office where the miracles were verified. One of them had

suffered from three complaints, only one of which the Blessed Virgin had

so far deigned to cure; but great hopes were entertained respecting the

other two. Sometimes, when a wretched woman, who the day before had

claimed to be cured, was questioned with reference to her health, she

would reply that her pains had returned to her. However, this never

disturbed the doctor's serenity; ever conciliatory, the good man declared

that Heaven would surely complete what Heaven had begun. Whenever there

was an improvement in health, he would ask if it were not something to be

thankful for. And, indeed, his constant saying was: "There's an

improvement already; be patient!" What he most dreaded were the

importunities of the lady-superintendents, who all wished to detain him

to show him sundry extraordinary cases. Each prided herself on having the

most serious illnesses, the most frightful, exceptional cases in her

ward; so that she was eager to have them medically authenticated, in

order that she might share in the triumph should cure supervene. One

caught the doctor by the arm and assured him that she felt confident she

had a leper in her charge; another entreated him to come and look at a

young girl whose back, she said, was covered with fish's scales; whilst a

third, whispering in his ear, gave him some terrible details about a

married lady of the best society. He hastened away, however, refusing to

see even one of them, or else simply promising to come back later on when

he was not so busy. As he himself said, if he listened to all those

ladies, the day would pass in useless consultations. However, he at last

suddenly stopped opposite one of the miraculously cured inmates, and,

beckoning Ferrand to his side, exclaimed: "Ah! now here is an interesting

cure!" and Ferrand, utterly bewildered, had to listen to him whilst he

described all the features of the illness, which had totally disappeared

at the first immersion in the piscina.

At last Sister Hyacinthe, still wandering about, encountered Abbe

Judaine, who informed her that the young doctor had just been summoned to

the Family Ward. It was the fourth time he had gone thither to attend to

Brother Isidore, whose sufferings were as acute as ever, and whom he

could only fill with opium. In his agony, the Brother merely asked to be

soothed a little, in order that he might gather together sufficient

strength to return to the Grotto in the afternoon, as he had not been

able to do so in the morning. However, his pains increased, and at last

he swooned away.

When the Sister entered the ward she found the doctor seated at the

missionary's bedside. "Monsieur Ferrand," she said, "come up-stairs with

me to the Sainte-Honorine Ward at once. We have a patient there at the

point of death."

He smiled at her; indeed, he never beheld her without feeling brighter

and comforted. "I will come with you, Sister," he replied. "But you'll

wait a minute, won't you? I must try to restore this poor man."

She waited patiently and made herself useful. The Family Ward, situated

on the ground-floor, was also full of sunshine and fresh air which

entered through three large windows opening on to a narrow strip of

garden. In addition to Brother Isidore, only Monsieur Sabathier had

remained in bed that morning, with the view of obtaining a little rest;

whilst Madame Sabathier, taking advantage of the opportunity, had gone to

purchase a few medals and pictures, which she intended for presents.

Comfortably seated on his bed, his back supported by some pillows, the

ex-professor was rolling the beads of a chaplet between his fingers. He

was no longer praying, however, but merely continuing the operation in a

mechanical manner, his eyes, meantime, fixed upon his neighbour, whose

attack he was following with painful interest.

"Ah! Sister," said he to Sister Hyacinthe, who had drawn near, "that poor

Brother fills me with admiration. Yesterday I doubted the Blessed Virgin

for a moment, seeing that she did not deign to hear me, though I have

been coming here for seven years past; but the example set me by that

poor martyr, so resigned amidst his torments, has quite shamed me for my

want of faith. You can have no idea how grievously he suffers, and you

should see him at the Grotto, with his eyes glowing with divine hope! It

is really sublime! I only know of one picture at the Louvre--a picture by

some unknown Italian master--in which there is the head of a monk

beatified by a similar faith."

The man of intellect, the ex-university-professor, reared on literature

and art, was reappearing in this poor old fellow, whose life had been

blasted, and who had desired to become a free patient, one of the poor of

the earth, in order to move the pity of Heaven. He again began thinking

of his own case, and with tenacious hopefulness, which the futility of

seven journeys to Lourdes had failed to destroy, he added: "Well, I still

have this afternoon, since we sha'n't leave till to-morrow. The water is

certainly very cold, but I shall let them dip me a last time; and all the

morning I have been praying and asking pardon for my revolt of yesterday.

When the Blessed Virgin chooses to cure one of her children, it only

takes her a second to do so; is that not so, Sister? May her will be

done, and blessed be her name!"

Passing the beads of the chaplet more slowly between his fingers, he

again began saying his "Aves" and "Paters," whilst his eyelids drooped on

his flabby face, to which a childish expression had been returning during

the many years that he had been virtually cut off from the world.

Meantime Ferrand had signalled to Brother Isidore's sister, Marthe, to

come to him. She had been standing at the foot of the bed with her arms

hanging down beside her, showing the tearless resignation of a poor,

narrow-minded girl whilst she watched that dying man whom she worshipped.

She was no more than a faithful dog; she had accompanied her brother and

spent her scanty savings, without being of any use save to watch him

suffer. Accordingly, when the doctor told her to take the invalid in her

arms and raise him up a little, she felt quite happy at being of some

service at last. Her heavy, freckled, mournful face actually grew bright.

"Hold him," said the doctor, "whilst I try to give him this."

When she had raised him, Ferrand, with the aid of a small spoon,

succeeded in introducing a few drops of liquid between his set teeth.

Almost immediately the sick man opened his eyes and heaved a deep sigh.

He was calmer already; the opium was taking effect and dulling the pain

which he felt burning his right side, as though a red-hot iron were being

applied to it. However, he remained so weak that, when he wished to

speak, it became necessary to place one's ear close to his mouth in order

to catch what he said. With a slight sign he had begged Ferrand to bend

over him. "You are the doctor, monsieur, are you not?" he faltered. "Give

me sufficient strength that I may go once more to the Grotto, this

afternoon. I am certain that, if I am able to go, the Blessed Virgin will

cure me."

"Why, of course you shall go," replied the young man. "Don't you feel

ever so much better?"

"Oh! ever so much better--no! I know very well what my condition is,

because I saw many of our Brothers die, out there in Senegal. When the

liver is attacked and the abscess has worked its way outside, it means

the end. Sweating, fever, and delirium follow. But the Blessed Virgin

will touch the sore with her little finger and it will be healed. Oh! I

implore you all, take me to the Grotto, even if I should be unconscious!"

Sister Hyacinthe had also approached, and leant over him. "Be easy, dear

Brother," said she. "You shall go to the Grotto after _dejeuner_, and we

will all pray for you."

At length, in despair at these delays and extremely anxious about Madame

Vetu, she was able to get Ferrand away. Still, the Brother's state filled

her with pity; and, as they ascended the stairs, she questioned the

doctor, asking him if there were really no more hope. The other made a

gesture expressive of absolute hopelessness. It was madness to come to

Lourdes when one was in such a condition. However, he hastened to add,

with a smile: "I beg your pardon, Sister. You know that I am unfortunate

enough not to be a believer."

But she smiled in her turn, like an indulgent friend who tolerates the

shortcomings of those she loves. "Oh! that doesn't matter," she replied.

"I know you; you're all the same a good fellow. Besides, we see so many

people, we go amongst such pagans that it would be difficult to shock

us."

Up above, in the Sainte-Honorine Ward, they found Madame Vetu still

moaning, a prey to most intolerable suffering. Madame de Jonquiere and

Madame Desagneaux had remained beside the bed, their faces turning pale,

their hearts distracted by that death-cry, which never ceased. And when

they consulted Ferrand in a whisper, he merely replied, with a slight

shrug of the shoulders, that she was a lost woman, that it was only a

question of hours, perhaps merely of minutes. All he could do was to

stupefy her also, in order to ease the atrocious death agony which he

foresaw. She was watching him, still conscious, and also very obedient,

never refusing the medicine offered her. Like the others, she now had but

one ardent desire--to go back to the Grotto--and she gave expression to

it in the stammering accents of a child who fears that its prayer may not

be granted: "To the Grotto--will you? To the Grotto!"

"You shall be taken there by-and-by, I promise you," said Sister

Hyacinthe. "But you must be good. Try to sleep a little to gain some

strength."

The sick woman appeared to sink into a doze, and Madame de Jonquiere then

thought that she might take Madame Desagneaux with her to the other end

of the ward to count the linen, a troublesome business, in which they

became quite bewildered, as some of the articles were missing. Meantime

Sophie, seated on the bed opposite Madame Vetu, had not stirred. She had

laid her doll on her lap, and was waiting for the lady's death, since

they had told her that she was about to die. Sister Hyacinthe, moreover,

had remained beside the dying woman, and, unwilling to waste her time,

had taken a needle and cotton to mend some patient's bodice which had a

hole in the sleeve.

"You'll stay a little while with us, won't you?" she asked Ferrand.

The latter, who was still watching Madame Vetu, replied: "Yes, yes. She

may go off at any moment. I fear hemorrhage." Then, catching sight of

Marie on the neighbouring bed, he added in a lower voice: "How is she?

Has she experienced any relief?"

"No, not yet. Ah, dear child! we all pray for her very sincerely. She is

so young, so sweet, and so sorely afflicted. Just look at her now! Isn't

she pretty? One might think her a saint amid all this sunshine, with her

large, ecstatic eyes, and her golden hair shining like an aureola!"

Ferrand watched Marie for a moment with interest. Her absent air, her

indifference to all about her, the ardent faith, the internal joy which

so completely absorbed her, surprised him. "She will recover," he

murmured, as though giving utterance to a prognostic. "She will recover."

Then he rejoined Sister Hyacinthe, who had seated herself in the

embrasure of the lofty window, which stood wide open, admitting the warm

air of the courtyard. The sun was now creeping round, and only a narrow

golden ray fell upon her white coif and wimple. Ferrand stood opposite to

her, leaning against the window bar and watching her while she sewed. "Do

you know, Sister," said he, "this journey to Lourdes, which I undertook

to oblige a friend, will be one of the few delights of my life."

She did not understand him, but innocently asked: "Why so?"

"Because I have found you again, because I am here with you, assisting

you in your admirable work. And if you only knew how grateful I am to

you, what sincere affection and reverence I feel for you!"

She raised her head to look him straight in the face, and began jesting

without the least constraint. She was really delicious, with her pure