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lily-white complexion, her small laughing mouth, and adorable blue eyes

which ever smiled. And you could realise that she had grown up in all

innocence and devotion, slender and supple, with all the appearance of a

girl hardly in her teens.

"What! You are so fond of me as all that!" she exclaimed. "Why?"

"Why I'm fond of you? Because you are the best, the most consoling, the

most sisterly of beings. You are the sweetest memory in my life, the

memory I evoke whenever I need to be encouraged and sustained. Do you no

longer remember the month we spent together, in my poor room, when I was

so ill and you so affectionately nursed me?"

"Of course, of course I remember it! Why, I never had so good a patient

as you. You took all I offered you; and when I tucked you in, after

changing your linen, you remained as still as a little child."

So speaking, she continued looking at him, smiling ingenuously the while.

He was very handsome and robust, in the very prime of youth, with a

rather pronounced nose, superb eyes, and red lips showing under his black

moustache. But she seemed to be simply pleased at seeing him there before

her moved almost to tears.

"Ah! Sister, I should have died if it hadn't been for you," he said. "It

was through having you that I was cured."

Then, as they gazed at one another, with tender gaiety of heart, the

memory of that adorable month recurred to them. They no longer heard

Madame Vetu's death moans, nor beheld the ward littered with beds, and,

with all its disorder, resembling some infirmary improvised after a

public catastrophe. They once more found themselves in a small attic at

the top of a dingy house in old Paris, where air and light only reached

them through a tiny window opening on to a sea of roofs. And how charming

it was to be alone there together--he who had been prostrated by fever,

she who had appeared there like a good angel, who had quietly come from

her convent like a comrade who fears nothing! It was thus that she nursed

women, children, and men, as chance ordained, feeling perfectly happy so

long as she had something to do, some sufferer to relieve. She never

displayed any consciousness of her sex; and he, on his side, never seemed

to have suspected that she might be a woman, except it were for the

extreme softness of her hands, the caressing accents of her voice, the

beneficent gentleness of her manner; and yet all the tender love of a

mother, all the affection of a sister, radiated from her person. During

three weeks, as she had said, she had nursed him like a child, helping

him in and out of bed, and rendering him every necessary attention,

without the slightest embarrassment or repugnance, the holy purity born

of suffering and charity shielding them both the while. They were indeed

far removed from the frailties of life. And when he became convalescent,

what a happy existence began, how joyously they laughed, like two old

friends! She still watched over him, scolding him and gently slapping his

arms when he persisted in keeping them uncovered. He would watch her

standing at the basin, washing him a shirt in order to save him the

trifling expense of employing a laundress. No one ever came up there;

they were quite alone, thousands of miles away from the world, delighted

with this solitude, in which their youth displayed such fraternal gaiety.

"Do you remember, Sister, the morning when I was first able to walk

about?" asked Ferrand. "You helped me to get up, and supported me whilst

I awkwardly stumbled about, no longer knowing how to use my legs. We did

laugh so."

"Yes, yes, you were saved, and I was very pleased."

"And the day when you brought me some cherries--I can see it all again:

myself reclining on my pillows, and you seated at the edge of the bed,

with the cherries lying between us in a large piece of white paper. I

refused to touch them unless you ate some with me. And then we took them

in turn, one at a time, until the paper was emptied; and they were very

nice."

"Yes, yes, very nice. It was the same with the currant syrup: you would

only drink it when I took some also."

Thereupon they laughed yet louder; these recollections quite delighted

them. But a painful sigh from Madame Vetu brought them back to the

present. Ferrand leant over and cast a glance at the sick woman, who had

not stirred. The ward was still full of a quivering peacefulness, which

was only broken by the clear voice of Madame Desagneaux counting the

linen. Stifling with emotion, the young man resumed in a lower tone: "Ah!

Sister, were I to live a hundred years, to know every joy, every

pleasure, I should never love another woman as I love you!"

Then Sister Hyacinthe, without, however, showing any confusion, bowed her

head and resumed her sewing. An almost imperceptible blush tinged her

lily-white skin with pink.

"I also love you well, Monsieur Ferrand," she said, "but you must not

make me vain. I only did for you what I do for so many others. It is my

business, you see. And there was really only one pleasant thing about it

all, that the Almighty cured you."

They were now again interrupted. La Grivotte and Elise Rouquet had

returned from the Grotto before the others. La Grivotte at once squatted

down on her mattress on the floor, at the foot of Madame Vetu's bed, and,

taking a piece of bread from her pocket, proceeded to devour it. Ferrand,

since the day before, had felt some interest in this consumptive patient,

who was traversing such a curious phase of agitation, a prey to an

inordinate appetite and a feverish need of motion. For the moment,

however, Elise Rouquet's case interested him still more; for it had now

become evident that the lupus, the sore which was eating away her face,

was showing signs of cure. She had continued bathing her face at the

miraculous fountain, and had just come from the Verification Office,

where Doctor Bonamy had triumphed. Ferrand, quite surprised, went and

examined the sore, which, although still far from healed, was already

paler in colour and slightly desiccated, displaying all the symptoms of

gradual cure. And the case seemed to him so curious, that he resolved to

make some notes upon it for one of his old masters at the medical

college, who was studying the nervous origin of certain skin diseases due

to faulty nutrition.

"Have you felt any pricking sensation?" he asked.

"Not at all, monsieur," she replied. "I bathe my face and tell my beads

with my whole soul, and that is all."

La Grivotte, who was vain and jealous, and ever since the day before had

been going in triumph among the crowds, thereupon called to the doctor.

"I say, monsieur, I am cured, cured, cured completely!"

He waved his hand to her in a friendly way, but refused to examine her.

"I know, my girl. There is nothing more the matter with you."

Just then Sister Hyacinthe called to him. She had put her sewing down on

seeing Madame Vetu raise herself in a frightful fit of nausea. In spite

of her haste, however, she was too late with the basin; the sick woman

had brought up another discharge of black matter, similar to soot; but,

this time, some blood was mixed with it, little specks of violet-coloured

blood. It was the hemorrhage coming, the near end which Ferrand had been

dreading.

"Send for the superintendent," he said in a low voice, seating himself at

the bedside.

Sister Hyacinthe ran for Madame de Jonquiere. The linen having been

counted, she found her deep in conversation with her daughter Raymonde,

at some distance from Madame Desagneaux, who was washing her hands.

Raymonde had just escaped for a few minutes from the refectory, where she

was on duty. This was the roughest of her labours. The long narrow room,

with its double row of greasy tables, its sickening smell of food and

misery, quite disgusted her. And taking advantage of the half-hour still

remaining before the return of the patients, she had hurried up-stairs,

where, out of breath, with a rosy face and shining eyes, she had thrown

her arms around her mother's neck.

"Ah! mamma," she cried, "what happiness! It's settled!"

Amazed, her head buzzing, busy with the superintendence of her ward,

Madame de Jonquiere did not understand. "What's settled, my child?" she

asked.

Then Raymonde lowered her voice, and, with a faint blush, replied: "My

marriage!"

It was now the mother's turn to rejoice. Lively satisfaction appeared

upon her face, the fat face of a ripe, handsome, and still agreeable

woman. She at once beheld in her mind's eye their little lodging in the

Rue Vaneau, where, since her husband's death, she had reared her daughter

with great difficulty upon the few thousand francs he had left her. This

marriage, however, meant a return to life, to society, the good old times

come back once more.

"Ah! my child, how happy you make me!" she exclaimed.

But a feeling of uneasiness suddenly restrained her. God was her witness

that for three years past she had been coming to Lourdes through pure

motives of charity, for the one great joy of nursing His beloved

invalids. Perhaps, had she closely examined her conscience, she might,

behind her devotion, have found some trace of her fondness for authority,

which rendered her present managerial duties extremely pleasant to her.

However, the hope of finding a husband for her daughter among the

suitable young men who swarmed at the Grotto was certainly her last

thought. It was a thought which came to her, of course, but merely as

something that was possible, though she never mentioned it. However, her

happiness, wrung an avowal from her:

"Ah! my child, your success doesn't surprise me. I prayed to the Blessed

Virgin for it this morning."

Then she wished to be quite sure, and asked for further information.

Raymonde had not yet told her of her long walk leaning on Gerard's arm

the day before, for she did not wish to speak of such things until she

was triumphant, certain of having at last secured a husband. And now it

was indeed settled, as she had exclaimed so gaily: that very morning she

had again seen the young man at the Grotto, and he had formally become

engaged to her. M. Berthaud would undoubtedly ask for her hand on his

cousin's behalf before they took their departure from Lourdes.

"Well," declared Madame de Jonquiere, who was now convinced, smiling, and

delighted at heart, "I hope you will be happy, since you are so sensible

and do not need my aid to bring your affairs to a successful issue. Kiss

me."

It was at this moment that Sister Hyacinthe arrived to announce Madame

Vetu's imminent death. Raymonde at once ran off. And Madame Desagneaux,

who was wiping her hands, began to complain of the lady-assistants, who

had all disappeared precisely on the morning when they were most wanted.

"For instance," said she, "there's Madame Volmar. I should like to know

where she can have got to. She has not been seen, even for an hour, ever

since our arrival."

"Pray leave Madame Volmar alone!" replied Madame de Jonquiere with some

asperity. "I have already told you that she is ill."

They both hastened to Madame Vetu. Ferrand stood there waiting; and

Sister Hyacinthe having asked him if there were indeed nothing to be

done, he shook his head. The dying woman, relieved by her first emesis,

now lay inert, with closed eyes. But, a second time, the frightful nausea

returned to her, and she brought up another discharge of black matter

mingled with violet-coloured blood. Then she had another short interval

of calm, during which she noticed La Grivotte, who was greedily devouring

her hunk of bread on the mattress on the floor.

"She is cured, isn't she?" the poor woman asked, feeling that she herself

was dying.

La Grivotte heard her, and exclaimed triumphantly: "Oh, yes, madame,

cured, cured, cured completely!"

For a moment Madame Vetu seemed overcome by a miserable feeling of grief,

the revolt of one who will not succumb while others continue to live. But

almost immediately she became resigned, and they heard her add very

faintly, "It is the young ones who ought to remain."

Then her eyes, which remained wide open, looked round, as though bidding

farewell to all those persons, whom she seemed surprised to see about

her. She attempted to smile as she encountered the eager gaze of

curiosity which little Sophie Couteau still fixed upon her: the charming

child had come to kiss her that very morning, in her bed. Elise Rouquet,

who troubled herself about nobody, was meantime holding her hand-glass,

absorbed in the contemplation of her face, which seemed to her to be

growing beautiful, now that the sore was healing. But what especially

charmed the dying woman was the sight of Marie, so lovely in her ecstasy.

She watched her for a long time, constantly attracted towards her, as

towards a vision of light and joy. Perhaps she fancied that she already

beheld one of the saints of Paradise amid the glory of the sun.

Suddenly, however, the fits of vomiting returned, and now she solely

brought up blood, vitiated blood, the colour of claret. The rush was so

great that it bespattered the sheet, and ran all over the bed. In vain

did Madame de Jonquiere and Madame Desagneaux bring cloths; they were

both very pale and scarce able to remain standing. Ferrand, knowing how

powerless he was, had withdrawn to the window, to the very spot where he

had so lately experienced such delicious emotion; and with an instinctive

movement, of which she was surely unconscious, Sister Hyacinthe had

likewise returned to that happy window, as though to be near him.

"Really, can you do nothing?" she inquired.

"No, nothing! She will go off like that, in the same way as a lamp that

has burnt out."

Madame Vetu, who was now utterly exhausted, with a thin red stream still