The Village Rector

XX

THE LAST STRUG­GLE

Sud­den­ly she stopped, a few feet from her moth­er, who looked at her as the moth­er of Christ must have looked at her son up­on the cross. She raised her hand, and point­ing to the spot where the road to Mon­teg­nac branched from the high­way, she said, smil­ing:--

“See that car­riage with the post-​hors­es; Mon­sieur Roubaud is re­turn­ing to us. We shall now know how many hours I have to live.”

“Hours?” said Ger­ard.

“Did I not tell you I was tak­ing my last walk?” she replied. “I have come here to see for the last time this glo­ri­ous scene in all its splen­dor!” She point­ed first to the vil­lage where the whole pop­ula­tion seemed to be col­lect­ed in the church square, and then to the beau­ti­ful mead­ows glow­ing in the last rays of the set­ting sun. “Ah!” she said, “let me see the bene­dic­tion of God in the strange at­mo­spher­ic con­di­tion to which we owe the safe­ty of our har­vest. Around us, on all sides, tem­pests, hail, light­ning, have struck in­ces­sant­ly and piti­less­ly. The com­mon peo­ple think thus, why not I? I do so need to see in this a hap­py au­gury for what awaits me af­ter death!”

The child stood up and took his moth­er's hand and laid it on his head. Veronique, deeply af­fect­ed by the ac­tion, so full of elo­quence, took up her son with su­per­nat­ural strength, seat­ing him on her left arm as though he were still an in­fant at her breast, say­ing, as she kissed him:--

“Do you see that land, my son? When you are a man, con­tin­ue there your moth­er's work.”

“Madame,” said the rec­tor, in a grave voice, “a few strong and priv­ileged be­ings are able to con­tem­plate their com­ing death face to face, to fight, as it were, a du­el with it, and to dis­play a courage and an abil­ity which chal­lenge ad­mi­ra­tion. You show us this ter­ri­ble spec­ta­cle; but per­haps you have too lit­tle pity for us; leave us at least the hope that you may be mis­tak­en, and that God will al­low you to fin­ish that which you have be­gun.”

“All I have done is through you, my friends,” she said. “I have been use­ful, I can be so no longer. All is fruit­ful around us now; noth­ing is bar­ren and des­olat­ed here ex­cept my heart. You well know, my dear rec­tor, that I can on­ly find peace and par­don _there_.”

She stretched her hand to­ward the ceme­tery. Nev­er had she said as much since the day of her ar­rival, when she was tak­en with sud­den ill­ness at the same spot. The rec­tor looked at­ten­tive­ly at his pen­itent, and the habit of pen­etra­tion he had long ac­quired made him see that in those sim­ple words he had won an­oth­er tri­umph. Veronique must have made a mighty ef­fort over her­self to break her twelve years' si­lence with a speech that said so much. The rec­tor clasped his hands with a fer­vent ges­ture that was nat­ural to him as he looked with deep emo­tion at the mem­bers of this fam­ily whose se­crets had passed in­to his heart.

Ger­ard, to whom the words “peace and par­don” must have seemed strange, was be­wil­dered. Mon­sieur Ruf­fin, with his eyes fixed on Veronique, was stu­pe­fied. At this in­stant the car­riage came rapid­ly up the av­enue.

“There are five of them!” cried the rec­tor, who could see and count the trav­ellers.

“Five!” ex­claimed Ger­ard. “Can five know more than two?”

“Ah,” cried Madame Graslin sud­den­ly, grasp­ing the rec­tor's arm, “the _pro­cureur-​gen­er­al_ is among them! What is he do­ing here?”

“And pa­pa Gros­setete, too!” cried Fran­cis.

“Madame,” said the rec­tor, sup­port­ing Veronique, and lead­ing her apart a few steps, “show courage; be wor­thy of your­self.”

“But what can he want?” she replied, lean­ing on the balustrade. “Moth­er!” (the old wom­an ran to her daugh­ter with an ac­tiv­ity that be­lied her years.) “I shall see him again,” she said.

“As he comes with Mon­sieur Gros­setete,” said the rec­tor, “he can have none but good in­ten­tions.”

“Ah! mon­sieur, my child will die!” cried Madame Sauvi­at, see­ing the ef­fect of the rec­tor's words on her daugh­ter's face. “How can her heart sur­vive such emo­tions? Mon­sieur Gros­setete has al­ways hith­er­to pre­vent­ed that man from see­ing Veronique.”

Madame Graslin's face was on fire.

“Do you hate him so much?” said the Abbe Bon­net.

“She left Limo­ges to es­cape the sight of him, and to es­cape let­ting the whole town in­to her se­crets,” said Madame Sauvi­at, ter­ri­fied at the change she saw on Madame Graslin's fea­tures.

“Do you not see that he will poi­son my few re­main­ing hours? When I ought to be think­ing of heav­en he will nail me to earth,” cried Veronique.

The rec­tor took her arm and con­strained her to walk aside with him. When they were alone he stopped and gave her one of those an­gel­ic looks with which he was able to calm the vi­olent con­vul­sions of the soul.

“If it is re­al­ly so,” he said, “as your con­fes­sor, I or­der you to re­ceive him, to be kind and af­fec­tion­ate to him, to quit that gar­ment of wrath, and for­give him as God will for­give you. Can there still be the re­mains of pas­sion of a soul I be­lieved to be pu­ri­fied. Burn this last in­cense on the al­tar of your pen­itence, or else your re­pen­tance is a lie.”

“There was still that ef­fort to make--and it is made,” she an­swered, wip­ing her eyes. “The dev­il lurked in that last fold of my heart, and God, no doubt, put in­to Mon­sieur de Grandville's mind the thought that brings him here. Ah! how many times must God strike me?” she cried.

She stopped, as if to say a men­tal prayer; then she re­turned to Madame Sauvi­at and said in a low voice:

“My dear moth­er, be kind and gen­tle to Mon­sieur de Grandville.”

The old wom­an clasped her hands with a fever­ish shud­der.

“There is no longer any hope,” she said, seiz­ing the rec­tor's hand.

The car­riage, an­nounced by the pos­til­ion's whip, was now com­ing up the last slope; the gates were opened, it en­tered the court­yard, and the trav­ellers came at once to the ter­race. They were the il­lus­tri­ous Arch­bish­op Dutheil, who was on his way to con­se­crate Mon­seigneur Gabriel de Rastignac, the _pro­cureur-​gen­er­al_, Mon­sieur de Grandville, Mon­sieur Gros­setete, Mon­sieur Roubaud, and one of the most cel­ebrat­ed physi­cians in Paris, Ho­race Bian­chon.

“You are very wel­come,” said Veronique, ad­vanc­ing to­ward them,--“you par­tic­ular­ly,” she added, of­fer­ing her hand to Mon­sieur de Grandville, who took it and pressed it.

“I count­ed on the in­ter­ven­tion of Mon­seigneur and on that of my friend Mon­sieur Gros­setete to ob­tain for me a fa­vor­able re­cep­tion,” said the _pro­cureur-​gen­er­al_. “It would have been a life-​long re­gret to me if I did not see you again.”

“I thank those who brought you here,” replied Veronique, look­ing at the Comte de Grandville for the first time in fif­teen years. “I have felt averse to you for a very long time, but I now rec­og­nize the in­jus­tice of my feel­ings; and you shall know why, if you can stay till the day af­ter to-​mor­row at Mon­teg­nac.” Then turn­ing to Ho­race Bian­chon and bow­ing to him, she added: “Mon­sieur will no doubt con­firm my ap­pre­hen­sions. God must have sent you, Mon­seigneur,” she said, turn­ing to the arch­bish­op. “In mem­ory of our old friend­ship you will not refuse to as­sist me in my last mo­ments. By whose mer­cy is it that I have about me all the be­ings who have loved and sup­port­ed me in life?”

As she said the word _loved_ she turned with a gra­cious look to Mon­sieur de Grandville, who was touched to tears by this mark of feel­ing. Si­lence fell for a few mo­ments on ev­ery one. The doc­tors won­dered by what oc­cult pow­er this wom­an could still keep her feet, suf­fer­ing as she must have suf­fered. The oth­er three men were so shocked at the rav­ages dis­ease had sud­den­ly made in her that they com­mu­ni­cat­ed their thoughts by their eyes on­ly.

“Al­low me,” she said, with her ac­cus­tomed grace, “to leave you now with these gen­tle­men; the mat­ter is ur­gent.”

She bowed to her guests, gave an arm to each of the doc­tors, and walked to­ward the chateau fee­bly and slow­ly, with a dif­fi­cul­ty which told on­ly too plain­ly of the com­ing catas­tro­phe.

“Mon­sieur Bon­net,” said the arch­bish­op, look­ing at the rec­tor, “you have ac­com­plished a mir­acle.”

“Not I, but God, Mon­seigneur,” he replied.

“They said she was dy­ing,” said Mon­sieur Gros­setete, “but she is dead; there is noth­ing left of her but spir­it.”

“A soul,” said Ger­ard.

“And yet she is still the same,” cried the _pro­cureur-​gen­er­al_.

“A sto­ic af­ter the man­ner of the Porch philoso­phers,” said the tu­tor.

They walked in si­lence the whole length of the balustrade, look­ing at the land­scape still red with the de­clin­ing light.

“To me who saw this scene thir­teen years ago,” said the arch­bish­op, point­ing to the fer­tile plain, the val­ley, and the moun­tains of Mon­teg­nac, “this mir­acle is as ex­traor­di­nary as that we have just wit­nessed. But how comes it that you al­low Madame Graslin to walk about? She ought to be in her bed.”

“She was there,” said Madame Sauvi­at; “for ten days she did not leave it; but to-​day she in­sist­ed on get­ting up to take a last look at the land­scape.”

“I can un­der­stand that she want­ed to bid farewell to her great cre­ation,” said Mon­sieur de Grandville; “but she risked ex­pir­ing on this ter­race.”

“Mon­sieur Roubaud told us not to thwart her,” said Madame Sauvi­at.

“What a stu­pen­dous work! what a mir­acle has been ac­com­plished!” said the arch­bish­op, whose eyes were rov­ing over the scene be­fore him. “She has lit­er­al­ly sown the desert! But we know, mon­sieur,” he added, turn­ing to Ger­ard, “that your sci­en­tif­ic knowl­edge and your labors have a large share in it.”

“They have been on­ly the work­men,” replied the may­or. “Yes, the hands on­ly; she has been the thought.”

Madame Sauvi­at here left the group, to hear, if pos­si­ble, the de­ci­sion of the doc­tors.

“We need some hero­ism our­selves,” said Mon­sieur de Grandville to the rec­tor and the arch­bish­op, “to en­able us to wit­ness this death.”

“Yes,” said Mon­sieur Gros­setete, who over­heard him, “but we ought to do much for such a friend.”

Af­ter sev­er­al turns up and down the ter­race, these per­sons, full of solemn thoughts, saw two farm­ers ap­proach­ing them, sent as a dep­uta­tion from the vil­lage, where the in­hab­itants were in a state of painful anx­iety to know the sen­tence pro­nounced by the physi­cian from Paris.

“They are still con­sult­ing, and as yet we know noth­ing, my friends,” said the arch­bish­op.

As he spoke, Mon­sieur Roubaud ap­peared com­ing to­ward them, and they all hur­ried to meet him.

“Well?” said the may­or.

“She can­not live forty-​eight hours longer,” replied Mon­sieur Roubaud. “Dur­ing my ab­sence the dis­ease has ful­ly de­vel­oped; Mon­sieur Bian­chon does not un­der­stand how it was pos­si­ble for her to have walked. Such phe­nom­enal ex­hi­bi­tions of strength are al­ways caused by great men­tal ex­al­ta­tion. So, gen­tle­men,” said the doc­tor to the priests, “she be­longs to you now; sci­ence is use­less, and my il­lus­tri­ous fel­low-​physi­cian thinks you have bare­ly time enough for your last of­fices.”

“Let us go now and say the prayers for the forty hours,” said the rec­tor to his parish­ioners, turn­ing to leave the ter­race. “His Grace will doubt­less ad­min­is­ter the last sacra­ments.”

The arch­bish­op bowed his head; he could not speak; his eyes were full of tears. Ev­ery one sat down, or leaned against the balustrade, ab­sorbed in his own thought. The church bells present­ly sent forth a few sad calls, and then the whole pop­ula­tion were seen hur­ry­ing to­ward the porch. The gleam of the light­ed ta­pers shone through the trees in Mon­sieur Bon­net's gar­den; the chants re­sound­ed. No col­or was left in the land­scape but the dull red hue of the dusk; even the birds had hushed their songs; the tree-​frog alone sent forth its long, clear, melan­choly note.

“I will go and do my du­ty,” said the arch­bish­op, turn­ing away with a slow step like a man over­come with emo­tion.

The con­sul­ta­tion had tak­en place in the great sa­lon of the chateau. This vast room com­mu­ni­cat­ed with a state bed­cham­ber, fur­nished in red damask, in which Graslin had dis­played a cer­tain op­ulent mag­nif­icence. Veronique had not en­tered it six times in four­teen years; the grand apart­ments were quite use­less to her, and she nev­er re­ceived her friends there. But now the ef­fort she had made to ac­com­plish her last obli­ga­tion, and to over­come her last re­pug­nance had ex­haust­ed her strength, and she was whol­ly un­able to mount the stairs to her own rooms.

When the il­lus­tri­ous physi­cian had tak­en the pa­tient's hand and felt her pulse he looked at Mon­sieur Roubaud and made him a sign; then to­geth­er they lift­ed her and car­ried her in­to the cham­ber. Aline hasti­ly opened the doors. Like all state beds the one in this room had no sheets, and the two doc­tors laid Madame Graslin on the damask cov­er­let. Roubaud opened the win­dows, pushed back the out­er blinds, and called. The ser­vants and Madame Sauvi­at went in. The ta­pers in the can­de­labra were light­ed.

“It is or­dained,” said the dy­ing wom­an, smil­ing, “that my death shall be what that of a Chris­tian should be--a fes­ti­val!”

Dur­ing the con­sul­ta­tion she said:--

“The _pro­cureur-​gen­er­al_ has done his pro­fes­sion­al du­ty; I was go­ing, and he has pushed me on.”

The old moth­er looked at her and laid a fin­ger on her lips.

“Moth­er, I shall speak,” replied Veronique. “See! the hand of God is in all this; I am dy­ing in a red room--”

Madame Sauvi­at went out, un­able to bear those words.

“Aline,” she said, “she will speak! she will speak!”

“Ah! madame is out of her mind,” cried the faith­ful maid, who was bring­ing sheets. “Fetch the rec­tor, madame.”

“Your mis­tress must be un­dressed,” said Bian­chon to the maid.

“It will be very dif­fi­cult to do it, mon­sieur; madame is wrapped in a hair-​cloth gar­ment.”

“What! in the nine­teenth-​cen­tu­ry can such hor­rors be re­vived?” said the great doc­tor.

“Madame Graslin has nev­er al­lowed me to touch her stom­ach,” said Roubaud. “I have been able to judge of the progress of the dis­ease on­ly from her face and her pulse, and the lit­tle in­for­ma­tion I could get from her moth­er and the maid.”

Veronique was now placed on a so­fa while the bed was be­ing made. The doc­tors spoke to­geth­er in a low voice. Madame Sauvi­at and Aline made the bed. The faces of the two wom­en were full of an­guish; their hearts were wrung by the thought, “We are mak­ing her bed for the last time --she will die here!”

The con­sul­ta­tion was not long. But Bian­chon ex­act­ed at the out­set that Aline should, in spite of the pa­tient's re­sis­tance, cut off the hair shirt and put on a night-​dress. The doc­tors re­turned to the sa­lon while this was be­ing done. When Aline passed them car­ry­ing the in­stru­ment of tor­ture wrapped in a nap­kin, she said:--

“Madame's body is one great wound.”

The doc­tors re­turned to the bed­room.

“Your will is stronger than that of Napoleon, madame,” said Bian­chon, af­ter ask­ing a few ques­tions, to which Veronique replied very clear­ly. “You keep your mind and your fac­ul­ties in the last stages of a dis­ease which robbed the Em­per­or of his bril­liant in­tel­lect. From what I know of you I think I ought to tell you the truth.”

“I im­plore you to do so,” she said. “You are able to es­ti­mate what strength re­mains to me; and I have need of all my vig­or for a few hours.”

“Think on­ly of your sal­va­tion,” replied Bian­chon.

“If God has giv­en me grace to die in pos­ses­sion of all my fac­ul­ties,” she said with a ce­les­tial smile, “be sure that this fa­vor will be used to the glo­ry of his Church. The pos­ses­sion of my mind and sens­es is nec­es­sary to ful­fil a com­mand of God, where­as Napoleon had ac­com­plished all his des­tiny.”

The doc­tors looked at each oth­er in as­ton­ish­ment at hear­ing these words, said with as much ease as though Madame Graslin were still pre­sid­ing in her sa­lon.

“Ah! here is the doc­tor who is to cure me,” she said present­ly, when the arch­bish­op, sum­moned by Roubaud, en­tered the room.

She col­lect­ed all her strength and rose to a sit­ting pos­ture, in or­der to bow gra­cious­ly to Mon­sieur Bian­chon, and beg him to ac­cept some­thing else than mon­ey for the good news he gave her. She said a few words in her moth­er's ear, and Madame Sauvi­at im­me­di­ate­ly led away the doc­tors; then Veronique re­quest­ed the arch­bish­op to post­pone their in­ter­view till the rec­tor could come to her, ex­press­ing a wish to rest for a while. Aline watched be­side her.

At mid­night Madame Graslin awoke, and asked for the arch­bish­op and rec­tor, whom Aline silent­ly showed her close at hand, pray­ing for her. She made a sign dis­miss­ing her moth­er and the maid, and, at an­oth­er sign, the two priests came to the bed­side.

“Mon­seigneur, and you, my dear rec­tor,” she said, “will hear noth­ing you do not al­ready know. You were the first, Mon­seigneur, to cast your eyes in­to my in­ner self; you read there near­ly all my past; and what you read suf­ficed you. My con­fes­sor, that guardian an­gel whom heav­en placed near me, knows more; I have told him all. You, whose minds are en­light­ened by the spir­it of the Church, I wish to con­sult you as to the man­ner in which I ought as a true Chris­tian to leave this life. You, aus­tere and saint­ly spir­its, think you that if God deigns to par­don one whose re­pen­tance is the deep­est, the most ab­so­lute, that ev­er shook a hu­man soul, think you that even then I have made my full ex­pi­ation here be­low?”

“Yes,” said the arch­bish­op; “yes, my daugh­ter.”

“No, my fa­ther, no!” she said ris­ing in her bed, the light­ning flash­ing from her eyes. “Not far from here there is a grave, where an un­hap­py man is ly­ing be­neath the weight of a dread­ful crime; here in this sump­tu­ous home is a wom­an, crowned with the fame of benev­olence and virtue. This wom­an is blessed; that poor young man is cursed. The crim­inal is cov­ered with oblo­quy; I re­ceive the re­spect of all. I had the largest share in the sin; he has a share, a large share in the good which has won for me such glo­ry and such grat­itude. Fraud that I am, I have the hon­or; he, the mar­tyr to his loy­al­ty, has the shame. I shall die in a few hours, and the can­ton will mourn me; the whole de­part­ment will ring with my good deeds, my piety, my virtue; but he died cov­ered with in­sults, in sight of a whole pop­ula­tion rush­ing, with ha­tred to a mur­der­er, to see him die. You, my judges, you are in­dul­gent to me; yet I hear with­in my­self an im­pe­ri­ous voice which will not let me rest. Ah! the hand of God, less ten­der than yours, strikes me from day to day, as if to warn me that all is not ex­pi­at­ed. My sins can­not be re­deemed ex­cept by a pub­lic con­fes­sion. He is hap­py! crim­inal, he gave his life with ig­nominy in face of earth and heav­en; and I, I cheat the world as I cheat­ed hu­man jus­tice. The homage I re­ceive hu­mil­iates me; praise sears my heart. Do you not see, in the very com­ing of the _pro­cureur-​gen­er­al_, a com­mand from heav­en echo­ing the voice in my own soul which cries to me: Con­fess!”

The two priests, the prince of the Church as well as the hum­ble rec­tor, these two great lights, each in his own way, stood with their eyes low­ered and were silent. Deeply moved by the grandeur and the res­ig­na­tion of the guilty wom­an, the judges could not pro­nounce her sen­tence.

“My child,” said the arch­bish­op at last, rais­ing his no­ble head, mac­er­at­ed by the cus­toms of his aus­tere life, “you are go­ing be­yond the com­mand­ments of the Church. The glo­ry of the Church is to make her dog­ma con­form to the habits and man­ners of each age; for the Church goes on from age to age in com­pa­ny with hu­man­ity. Ac­cord­ing to her present de­ci­sion se­cret con­fes­sion has tak­en the place of pub­lic con­fes­sion. This sub­sti­tu­tion has made the new law. The suf­fer­ings you have en­dured suf­fice. Die in peace: God has heard you.”

“But is not this de­sire of a guilty wom­an in con­for­mi­ty with the law of the first Church, which has en­riched heav­en with as many saints and mar­tyrs and con­fess­ing souls as there are stars in the fir­ma­ment?” per­sist­ed Veronique, ve­he­ment­ly. “Who said: _Con­fess your­selves to one an­oth­er_? Was it not the dis­ci­ples, who lived with the Saviour? Let me con­fess my shame pub­licly on my knees. It will re­deem my sin to the world, to that fam­ily ex­iled and al­most ex­tinct through me. The world ought to know that my bene­fac­tions are not an of­fer­ing, but the pay­ment of a debt. Sup­pose that lat­er, af­ter my death, some­thing tore from my mem­ory the ly­ing veil which cov­ers me. Ah! that idea is more than I can bear, it is death in­deed!”

“I see in this too much of cal­cu­la­tion, my child,” said the arch­bish­op, grave­ly. “Pas­sions are still too strong in you; the one I thought ex­tinct is--”

“Oh! I swear to you, Mon­seigneur,” she said, in­ter­rupt­ing the prelate and fix­ing her eyes, full of hor­ror, up­on him, “my heart is as pu­ri­fied as that of a guilty and re­pen­tant wom­an can be; there is noth­ing now with­in me but the thought of God.”

“Mon­seigneur,” said the rec­tor in a ten­der voice, “let us leave ce­les­tial jus­tice to take its course. It is now four years since I have strong­ly op­posed this wish; it is the on­ly dif­fer­ence that has ev­er come be­tween my pen­itent and my­self. I have seen to the depths of that soul, and I know this earth has no longer any hold there. Though the tears, the re­morse, the con­tri­tion of fif­teen years re­late to the mu­tu­al sin of those two per­sons, be­lieve me there are no re­mains of earth­ly pas­sion in this long and ter­ri­ble be­wail­ing. Mem­ory no longer min­gles its flames with those of an ar­dent pen­itence. Yes, tears have at last ex­tin­guished that great fire. I guar­an­tee,” he said, stretch­ing his hand over Madame Graslin's head, and let­ting his moist­ened eyes be seen, “I guar­an­tee the pu­ri­ty of that an­gel­ic soul. And al­so I see in this de­sire the thought of repa­ra­tion to an ab­sent fam­ily, a mem­ber of which God has brought back here by one of those events which re­veal His prov­idence.”

Veronique took the trem­bling hand of the rec­tor and kissed it.

“You have of­ten been very stern to me, dear pas­tor, but at this mo­ment I see where you keep your apos­tolic gen­tle­ness. You,” she said, look­ing at the arch­bish­op, “you, the supreme head of this cor­ner of God's king­dom, be to me, in this mo­ment of ig­nominy, a sup­port. I must bow down as the low­est of wom­en, but you will lift me up par­doned and --pos­si­bly--the equal of those who nev­er sinned.”

The arch­bish­op was silent, weigh­ing no doubt all the con­sid­er­ations his prac­tised eye per­ceived.

“Mon­seigneur,” said the rec­tor, “re­li­gion has had some heavy blows. This re­turn to an­cient cus­toms, brought about by the great­ness of the sin and its re­pen­tance, may it not be a tri­umph we have no right to refuse?”

“But they will say we are fa­nat­ics! They will de­clare we have ex­act­ed this cru­el scene!”

And again the arch­bish­op was silent and thought­ful.

At this mo­ment Ho­race Bian­chon and Roubaud en­tered the room, af­ter knock­ing. As the door opened Veronique saw her moth­er, her son, and all the ser­vants of the house­hold on their knees pray­ing. The rec­tors of the two ad­ja­cent parish­es had come to as­sist Mon­sieur Bon­net, and al­so, per­haps, to pay their re­spects to the great prelate, for whom the French cler­gy now de­sired the hon­ors of the car­di­nalate, hop­ing that the clear­ness of his in­tel­lect, which was thor­ough­ly Gal­li­can, would en­light­en the Sa­cred Col­lege.

Ho­race Bian­chon re­turned to Paris; be­fore de­part­ing, he came to bid farewell to the dy­ing wom­an and thank her for her mu­nif­icence. Slow­ly he ap­proached, per­ceiv­ing from the faces of the priests that the wounds of the soul had been the de­ter­min­ing cause of those of the body. He took Madame Graslin's hand, laid it on the bed and felt the pulse. The deep si­lence, that of a sum­mer night in a coun­try soli­tude, gave ad­di­tion­al solem­ni­ty to the scene. The great sa­lon, seen through the dou­ble doors, was light­ed up for the lit­tle com­pa­ny of per­sons who were pray­ing there; all were on their knees ex­cept the two priests who were seat­ed and read­ing their bre­varies. On ei­ther side of the grand state bed were the prelate in his vi­olet robes, the rec­tor, and the two physi­cians.

“She is ag­itat­ed al­most un­to death,” said Ho­race Bian­chon, who, like all men of great tal­ent, some­times used speech as grand as the oc­ca­sion that called it forth.

The arch­bish­op rose as if some in­ward im­pulse drove him; he called to Mon­sieur Bon­net, and to­geth­er they crossed the room, passed through the sa­lon, and went out up­on the ter­race, where they walked up and down for some mo­ments. When they re­turned, af­ter dis­cussing this case of ec­cle­si­as­ti­cal dis­ci­pline, Roubaud met them.