The Three Cities Trilogy: Lourdes | Page 8

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