Her sister, torn by sorrow, wept wildly, her forehead resting on the
edge of the bed, and kept repeating:

"Margot, my poor Margot, my little one!"

She had always called her, "Little One," just as the younger had always
called her "Big Sister."

Steps were heard on the stairs. The door opened. A choir boy appeared,
followed by an old priest in a surplice. As soon as she perceived him,
the dying woman, with one shudder, sat up, opened her lips, stammered
two or three words, and began to scratch the sheets with her nails as
if she had wished to make a hole.

The Abbé Simon approached, took her hand, kissed her brow, and with a
soft voice:

"God pardon thee, my child; have courage, the moment is now come,
speak."

Then Marguérite, shivering from head to foot, shaking her whole couch
with nervous movements, stammered:

"Sit down, Big Sister ... listen."

The priest bent down toward Suzanne, who was still flung upon the bed's
foot. He raised her, placed her in an armchair, and taking a hand of
each of the sisters in one of his own, he pronounced:

"Lord, my God! Endue them with strength, cast Thy mercy upon them."