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wife had been to fetch him, did not, however, question Ferrand, for he

knew full well what his answer would be, and was weary, as he expressed

it, of consulting all the princes of science; nevertheless he felt

comforted as it were at seeing him set that poor consumptive woman on her

feet again. And even Marie watched all that the doctor did with

increasing interest, though not daring to call him herself, certain as

she also was that he could do nothing for her.

Meantime, the crush on the platform was increasing. Only a quarter of an

hour now remained to the pilgrims. Madame Vetu, whose eyes were open but

who saw nothing, sat like an insensible being in the broad sunlight, in

the hope possibly that the scorching heat would deaden her pains; whilst

up and down, in front of her, went Madame Vincent ever with the same

sleep-inducing step and ever carrying her little Rose, her poor ailing

birdie, whose weight was so trifling that she scarcely felt her in her

arms. Many people meantime were hastening to the water tap in order to

fill their pitchers, cans, and bottles. Madame Maze, who was of refined

tastes and careful of her person, thought of going to wash her hands

there; but just as she arrived she found Elise Rouquet drinking, and she

recoiled at sight of that disease-smitten face, so terribly disfigured

and robbed of nearly all semblance of humanity. And all the others

likewise shuddered, likewise hesitated to fill their bottles, pitchers,

and cans at the tap from which she had drunk.

A large number of pilgrims had now begun to eat whilst pacing the

platform. You could hear the rhythmical taps of the crutches carried by a

woman who incessantly wended her way through the groups. On the ground, a

legless cripple was painfully dragging herself about in search of nobody

knew what. Others, seated there in heaps, no longer stirred. All these

sufferers, momentarily unpacked as it were, these patients of a

travelling hospital emptied for a brief half-hour, were taking the air

amidst the bewilderment and agitation of the healthy passengers; and the

whole throng had a frightfully woeful, poverty-stricken appearance in the

broad noontide light.

Pierre no longer stirred from the side of Marie, for M. de Guersaint had

disappeared, attracted by a verdant patch of landscape which could be

seen at the far end of the station. And, feeling anxious about her, since

she had not been able to finish her broth, the young priest with a

smiling air tried to tempt her palate by offering to go and buy her a

peach; but she refused it; she was suffering too much, she cared for

nothing. She was gazing at him with her large, woeful eyes, on the one

hand impatient at this stoppage which delayed her chance of cure, and on

the other terrified at the thought of again being jolted along that hard

and endless railroad.

Just then a stout gentleman whose full beard was turning grey, and who

had a broad, fatherly kind of face, drew near and touched Pierre's arm:

"Excuse me, Monsieur l'Abbe," said he, "but is it not in this carriage

that there is a poor man dying?"

And on the priest returning an affirmative answer, the gentleman became

quite affable and familiar.

"My name is Vigneron," he said; "I am the head clerk at the Ministry of

Finances, and applied for leave in order that I might help my wife to

take our son Gustave to Lourdes. The dear lad places all his hope in the

Blessed Virgin, to whom we pray morning and evening on his behalf. We are

in a second-class compartment of the carriage just in front of yours."

Then, turning round, he summoned his party with a wave of the hand.

"Come, come!" said he, "it is here. The unfortunate man is indeed in the

last throes."

Madame Vigneron was a little woman with the correct bearing of a

respectable _bourgeoise_, but her long, livid face denoted impoverished

blood, terrible evidence of which was furnished by her son Gustave. The

latter, who was fifteen years of age, looked scarcely ten. Twisted out of

shape, he was a mere skeleton, with his right leg so wasted, so reduced,

that he had to walk with a crutch. He had a small, thin face, somewhat

awry, in which one saw little excepting his eyes, clear eyes, sparkling

with intelligence, sharpened as it were by suffering, and doubtless well

able to dive into the human soul.

An old puffy-faced lady followed the others, dragging her legs along with

difficulty; and M. Vigneron, remembering that he had forgotten her,

stepped back towards Pierre so that he might complete the introduction.

"That lady," said he, "is Madame Chaise, my wife's eldest sister. She

also wished to accompany Gustave, whom she is very fond of." And then,

leaning forward, he added in a whisper, with a confidential air: "She is

the widow of Chaise, the silk merchant, you know, who left such an

immense fortune. She is suffering from a heart complaint which causes her

much anxiety."

The whole family, grouped together, then gazed with lively curiosity at

what was taking place in the railway carriage. People were incessantly

flocking to the spot; and so that the lad might be the better able to

see, his father took him up in his arms for a moment whilst his aunt held

the crutch, and his mother on her side raised herself on tip-toe.

The scene in the carriage was still the same; the strange man was still

stiffly seated in his corner, his head resting against the hard wood. He

was livid, his eyes were closed, and his mouth was twisted by suffering;

and every now and then Sister Hyacinthe with her linen cloth wiped away

the cold sweat which was constantly covering his face. She no longer

spoke, no longer evinced any impatience, but had recovered her serenity

and relied on Heaven. From time to time she would simply glance towards

the platform to see if Father Massias were coming.

"Look at him, Gustave," said M. Vigneron to his son; "he must be

consumptive."

The lad, whom scrofula was eating away, whose hip was attacked by an

abscess, and in whom there were already signs of necrosis of the

vertebrae, seemed to take a passionate interest in the agony he thus

beheld. It did not frighten him, he smiled at it with a smile of infinite

sadness.

"Oh! how dreadful!" muttered Madame Chaise, who, living in continual

terror of a sudden attack which would carry her off, turned pale with the

fear of death.

"Ah! well," replied M. Vigneron, philosophically, "it will come to each

of us in turn. We are all mortal."

Thereupon, a painful, mocking expression came over Gustave's smile, as

though he had heard other words than those--perchance an unconscious

wish, the hope that the old aunt might die before he himself did, that he

would inherit the promised half-million of francs, and then not long

encumber his family.

"Put the boy down now," said Madame Vigneron to her husband. "You are

tiring him, holding him by the legs like that."

Then both she and Madame Chaise bestirred themselves in order that the

lad might not be shaken. The poor darling was so much in need of care and

attention. At each moment they feared that they might lose him. Even his

father was of opinion that they had better put him in the train again at

once. And as the two women went off with the child, the old gentleman

once more turned towards Pierre, and with evident emotion exclaimed: "Ah!

Monsieur l'Abbe, if God should take him from us, the light of our life

would be extinguished--I don't speak of his aunt's fortune, which would

go to other nephews. But it would be unnatural, would it not, that he

should go off before her, especially as she is so ill? However, we are

all in the hands of Providence, and place our reliance in the Blessed

Virgin, who will assuredly perform a miracle."

Just then Madame de Jonquiere, having been reassured by Doctor Ferrand,

was able to leave La Grivotte. Before going off, however, she took care

to say to Pierre: "I am dying of hunger and am going to the

refreshment-room for a moment. But if my patient should begin coughing

again, pray come and fetch me."

When, after great difficulty, she had managed to cross the platform and

reach the refreshment-room, she found herself in the midst of another

scramble. The better-circumstanced pilgrims had taken the tables by

assault, and a great many priests were to be seen hastily lunching amidst

all the clatter of knives, forks, and crockery. The three or four waiters

were not able to attend to all the requirements, especially as they were

hampered in their movements by the crowd purchasing fruit, bread, and

cold meat at the counter. It was at a little table at the far end of the

room that Raymonde was lunching with Madame Desagneaux and Madame Volmar.

"Ah! here you are at last, mamma!" the girl exclaimed, as Madame de

Jonquiere approached. "I was just going back to fetch you. You certainly

ought to be allowed time to eat!"

She was laughing, with a very animated expression on her face, quite

delighted as she was with the adventures of the journey and this

indifferent scrambling meal. "There," said she, "I have kept you some

trout with green sauce, and there's a cutlet also waiting for you. We

have already got to the artichokes."

Then everything became charming. The gaiety prevailing in that little

corner rejoiced the sight.

Young Madame Desagneaux was particularly adorable. A delicate blonde,

with wild, wavy, yellow hair, a round, dimpled, milky face, a gay,

laughing disposition, and a remarkably good heart, she had made a rich

marriage, and for three years past had been wont to leave her husband at

Trouville in the fine August weather, in order to accompany the national

pilgrimage as a lady-hospitaller. This was her great passion, an access

of quivering pity, a longing desire to place herself unreservedly at the

disposal of the sick for five days, a real debauch of devotion from which

she returned tired to death but full of intense delight. Her only regret

was that she as yet had no children, and with comical passion, she

occasionally expressed a regret that she had missed her true vocation,

that of a sister of charity.

"Ah! my dear," she hastily said to Raymonde, "don't pity your mother for

being so much taken up with her patients. She, at all events, has

something to occupy her." And addressing herself to Madame de Jonquiere,

she added: "If you only knew how long we find the time in our fine

first-class carriage. We cannot even occupy ourselves with a little

needlework, as it is forbidden. I asked for a place with the patients,

but all were already distributed, so that my only resource will be to try

to sleep tonight."

She began to laugh, and then resumed: "Yes, Madame Volmar, we will try to

sleep, won't we, since talking seems to tire you?" Madame Volmar, who

looked over thirty, was very dark, with a long face and delicate but

drawn features. Her magnificent eyes shone out like brasiers, though

every now and then a cloud seemed to veil and extinguish them. At the

first glance she did not appear beautiful, but as you gazed at her she

became more and more perturbing, till she conquered you and inspired you

with passionate admiration. It should be said though that she shrank from

all self-assertion, comporting herself with much modesty, ever keeping in

the background, striving to hide her lustre, invariably clad in black and

unadorned by a single jewel, although she was the wife of a Parisian

diamond-merchant.

"Oh! for my part," she murmured, "as long as I am not hustled too much I

am well pleased."

She had been to Lourdes as an auxiliary lady-helper already on two

occasions, though but little had been seen of her there--at the hospital

of Our Lady of Dolours--as, on arriving, she had been overcome by such

great fatigue that she had been forced, she said, to keep her room.

However, Madame de Jonquiere, who managed the ward, treated her with

good-natured tolerance. "Ah! my poor friends," said she, "there will be

plenty of time for you to exert yourselves. Get to sleep if you can, and

your turn will come when I can no longer keep up." Then addressing her

daughter, she resumed: "And you would do well, darling, not to excite

yourself too much if you wish to keep your head clear."

Raymonde smiled and gave her mother a reproachful glance: "Mamma, mamma,

why do you say that? Am I not sensible?" she asked.

Doubtless she was not boasting, for, despite her youthful, thoughtless

air, the air of one who simply feels happy in living, there appeared in

her grey eyes an expression of firm resolution, a resolution to shape her

life for herself.

"It is true," the mother confessed with a little confusion, "this little

girl is at times more sensible than I am myself. Come, pass me the

cutlet--it is welcome, I assure you. Lord! how hungry I was!"

The meal continued, enlivened by the constant laughter of Madame

Desagneaux and Raymonde. The latter was very animated, and her face,

which was already growing somewhat yellow through long pining for a

suitor, again assumed the rosy bloom of twenty. They had to eat very

fast, for only ten minutes now remained to them. On all sides one heard

the growing tumult of customers who feared that they would not have time

to take their coffee.

All at once, however, Pierre made his appearance; a fit of stifling had

again come over La Grivotte; and Madame de Jonquiere hastily finished her

artichoke and returned to her compartment, after kissing her daughter,

who wished her "good-night" in a facetious way. The priest, however, had

made a movement of surprise on perceiving Madame Volmar with the red

cross of the lady-hospitallers on her black bodice. He knew her, for he

still called at long intervals on old Madame Volmar, the

diamond-merchant's mother, who had been one of his own mother's friends.

She was the most terrible woman in the world, religious beyond all