was in vain; she retained her frightful immobility. Not a sign of intelligence crossed her features.
“You see,” said the doctor, “I told you the truth.”
“Poor woman!” sighed Noel, “does she suffer?”
“Not at present.”
The nun now rose; and she too came beside the bed.
“Doctor,” said she: “all is ready.”
“Then call the servant, sister, to help us. We are going to apply a mustard poultice.”
The servant hastened in. In the arms of the two women, Madame Gerdy was like a corpse, whom they were dressing for the last time. She was as rigid as though she were dead. She must have suffered much and long, poor woman, for it was pitiable to see how thin she was. The nun herself was affected, although she had become habituated to the sight of suffering. How many invalids had breathed their last in her arms during the fifteen years that she had gone from pillow to pillow!
Noel, during this time, had retired into the window recess, and pressed his burning brow against the panes.
Of what was he thinking, while she who had given him so many proofs of maternal tenderness and devotion was dying a few paces from him? Did he regret her? was he not thinking rather of the grand and magnificent existence which awaited him on the other side of the river, at the Faubourg St. Germain? He turned abruptly round on hearing his friend’s voice.
“It is done,” said the doctor; “we have only now to wait the effect of the mustard. If she feels it, it will be a good sign; if it has no effect, we will try cupping.”
“And if that does not succeed?”
The doctor answered only with a shrug of the shoulders, which showed his inability to do more.
“I understand your silence, Herve,” murmured Noel. “Alas! you told me last night she was lost.”
“Scientifically, yes; but I do not yet despair. It is hardly a year ago that the father-inlaw of one of our comrades recovered from an almost identical attack; and I saw him when he was much worse than this; suppuration had set in.”
“It breaks my heart to see her in this state,” resumed Noel. “Must she die without recovering her reason even for one moment? Will she not recognise me, speak one word to me?”
“Who knows? This disease, my poor friend, baffles all foresight. Each moment, the aspect may change, according as the inflammation affects such or such a part of the brain. She is now in a state of utter insensibility, of complete prostration of all her intellectual faculties, of coma, of paralysis so to say; tomorrow, she may be seized with convulsions, accompanied with a fierce delirium.”
“And will she speak then?”
“Certainly; but that will neither modify the nature nor the gravity of the disease.”
“And will she recover her reason?”
“Perhaps,” answered the doctor, looking fixedly at his friend; “but why do you ask that?”
“Ah, my dear Herve, one word from Madame Gerdy, only one, would be of such use to me!”
“For your affair, eh! Well, I can tell you nothing, can promise you nothing. You have as many chances in your favour as against you; only, do not leave her. If her intelligence returns, it will be only momentary, try and profit by it. But I must go,” added the doctor; “I have still three calls to make.”
Noel followed his friend. When they reached the landing, he asked: “You will return?”
“This evening, at nine. There will be no need of me till then. All depends upon the watcher. But I have chosen a pearl. I know her well.”
“It was you, then, who brought this nun?”
“Yes, and without your permission. Are you displeased?”
“Not the least in the world. Only I confess —”
“What! you make a grimace. Do your political opinions forbid your having your mother, I should say Madame Gerdy, nursed by a nun of St. Vincent?”
“My dear Herve, you —”
“Ah! I know what you are going to say. They are adroit, insinuating, dangerous, all that is quite true. If I had a rich old uncle whose heir I expected to be, I shouldn’t introduce one of them into his house. These good creatures are sometimes charged with strange commissions. But, what have you to fear from this one? Never mind what fools say. Money aside, these worthy sisters are the best nurses in the world. I hope you will have one when your end comes. But good-bye; I am in a hurry.”
And, regardless of his professional dignity, the doctor hurried down the stairs; while Noel, full of thought, his countenance displaying the greatest anxiety, returned to Madame Gerdy.
At the door of the sick-room, the nun awaited the advocate’s return.
“Sir,” said she, “sir.”
“You want something of me, sister?”
“Sir, the servant bade me come to you for money; she has no more, and had to get credit at the chemist’s.”
“Excuse me, sister,” interrupted Noel, seemingly very much vexed; “excuse me for not having anticipated your request; but you see I am rather confused.”
And, taking a hundred-franc note out of his pocket-book, he laid it on the mantel piece.
“Thanks, sir,” said the nun; “I will keep an account of what I spend. We always do that,” she added; “it is more convenient for the family. One is so troubled at seeing those one loves laid low by illness. You have perhaps not thought of giving this poor lady the sweet aid of our holy religion! In your place, sir, I should send without delay for a priest — ”
“What, now, sister? Do you not see the condition she is in? She is the same as dead; you saw that she did not hear my voice.”
“That is of little consequence, sir,” replied the nun; “you will always have done your duty. She did not answer you; but are you sure that she will not answer the priest? Ah, you do not know all the power of the last sacraments! I have seen the dying recover their intelligence and sufficient strength to confess, and to receive the sacred body of our Lord Jesus Christ. I have often heard families say that they do not wish to alarm the invalid, that the sight of the minister of our Lord might inspire a terror that would hasten the final end. It is a fatal error. The priest does not terrify; he reassures the soul, at the beginning of its long journey. He speaks in the name of the God of mercy, who comes to save, not to destroy. I could cite to you many cases of dying people who have been cured simply by contact with the sacred balm.”
The nun spoke in a tone as mournful as her look. Her heart was evidently not in the words which she uttered. Without doubt, she had learned them when she first entered the convent. Then they expressed something she really felt, she spoke her own thoughts; but, since then, she had repeated the words over and over again to the friends of every sick person that she attended, until they lost all meaning so far as she was concerned. To utter them became simply a part of her duties
