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