The Three Cities Trilogy: Lourdes | Page 9

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