For three days, morning after morning, while the dew lay still upon the
grass, I went down, with a heavy and foreboding heart, to the place
where I could watch the cottage, through the long, sultry hours of the
summer-day. The first thing I saw always was Monsieur Laurentie, who
came to the door to satisfy me that he was himself in good health, and
to tell me how Richard Foster had passed the night. After that I caught
from time to time a momentary glimpse of his white head, as he passed
the dusky window. He would not listen to my entreaties to be allowed to
join him in his task. It was a malignant case, he said, and as my
husband was unconscious, I could do him no good by running the risk of
being near him.
An invisible line encircled the pestilential place, which none of us
dare break through without the permission of the curé, though any one of
the villagers would have rejoiced if he had summoned them to his aid. A
perpetual intercession was offered up day and night, before the high
altar, by the people, and there was no lack of eager candidates ready to
take up the prayer when the one who had been praying grew weary. On the
third morning I felt that they were beginning to look at me with altered
faces, and speak to me in colder accents. If I were the means of
bringing upon them the loss of their curé, they would curse the day he
found me and brought me to his home. I left the village street half
broken-hearted, and wandered hopelessly down to my chosen post.
I thought I was alone, but as I sat with my head bowed down upon my
hands, I felt a child's hand laid upon my neck, and Minima's voice spoke
plaintively in my ear.
"What is the matter, Aunt Nelly?" she asked. "Everybody is in trouble,
and mademoiselle says it is because your husband is come, and Monsieur
Laurentie is going to die for his sake. She began to cry when she said
that, and she said, 'What shall we all do if my brother dies? My God!
what will become of all the people in Ville-en-bois?' Is it true? Is
your husband really come, and is he going to die?"
"He is come," I said, in a low voice; "I do not know whether he is going
to die."
"Is he so poor that he will die?" she asked again. "Why does God let
people be so poor that they must die?".
"It is not because he is so poor that he is ill," I answered.
"But my father died because he was so poor," she said; "the doctors told
him he could get well if he had only enough money. Perhaps your husband
would not have died if he had not been very poor."
"No, no," I cried, vehemently, "he is not dying through poverty."
Yet the child's words had a sting in them, for I knew he had been poor,
in consequence of my act. I thought of the close, unwholesome house in
London, where he had been living. I could not help thinking of it, and
wondering whether any loss of vital strength, born of poverty, had
caused him to fall more easily a prey to this fever. My brain was
burdened with sorrowful questions and doubts.
I sent Minima back to the village before the morning-heat grew strong,
and then I was alone, watching the cottage through the fine haze of heat
which hung tremulously about it. The song of every bird was hushed; the
shouts of the harvest-men to their oxen ceased; and the only sound that
stirred the still air was the monotonous striking of the clock in the
church-tower. I had not seen Monsieur Laurentie since his first greeting
of me in the early morning. A panic fear seized upon me. Suppose he
should have been stricken suddenly by this deadly malady! I called
softly at first, then loudly, but no answer came to comfort me. If this
old man, worn out and exhausted, had actually given his life for
Richard's, what would become of me? what would become of all of us?
Step by step, pausing often, yet urged on by my growing fears, I stole
down the parched and beaten track toward the house, then called once
more to the oppressive silence.
Here in the open sunshine, with the hot walls of the mill casting its
rays back again, the heat was intense, though the white cap I wore
protected my head from it. My eyes were dazzled, and I felt ready to
faint. No wonder if Monsieur Laurentie should have sunk under it, and
the long strain upon his energies, which would have overtaxed a younger
and stronger man. I had passed the invisible line which his will had
drawn about the place, and had half crossed the court, when I heard
footsteps close behind me, and a large, brown, rough hand suddenly
caught mine.
"Mam'zelle'" cried a voice I knew well, "is this you!"
"O Tardif! Tardif!" I exclaimed. I rested my beating head against him,
and sobbed violently, while he surrounded me with his strong arm, and
laid his hand upon my head, as if to assure me of his help and
protection.
"Hush; hush! mam'zelle," he said; "it is Tardif, your friend, my little
mam'zelle; your servant, you know. I am here. What shall I do for you?
Is there any person in yonder house who frightens you, my poor little
mam'zelle? Tell me what I can do?"
He had drawn me back into the green shade of the trees, and set me down
upon the felled tree where I had been sitting before. I told him all
quickly, briefly--all that had happened since I had written to him. I
saw the tears start to his eyes.
"Thank God I am here!" he said; "I lost no time, mam'zelle, after your
letter reached me. I will save Monsieur le Curé; I will save them both,
if I can. _Ma foi!_ he is a good man, this curé, and we must not let him
perish. He has no authority over me, and I will go this moment and force
my way in, if the door is fastened. Adieu, my dear little mam'zelle."
He was gone before I could speak a word, striding with quick, energetic
tread across the court. The closed door under the eaves opened readily.
In an instant the white head of Monsieur Laurentie passed the casement,
and I could hear the hum of an earnest altercation, though I could not
catch a syllable of it. But presently Tardif appeared again in the
doorway, waving his cap in token of having gained his point.
I went back to the village at once to carry the good news, for it was
the loneliness of the curé that had weighed so heavily on every heart,
though none among them dare brave his displeasure by setting aside his
command. The quarantine was observed as rigidly as ever, but fresh hope
and confidence beamed upon every face, and I felt that they no longer
avoided me, as they had begun to do before Tardif's arrival. Now
Monsieur Laurentie could leave his patient, and sit under the sheltering
eaves in the cool of the morning or evening, while his people could
satisfy themselves from a distance that he was still in health.
The physician whom Jean fetched from Noireau spoke vaguely of Richard's
case. It was very malignant, he said, full of danger, and apparently his
whole constitution had been weakened by some protracted and grave
malady. We must hope, he added.
Whether it was in hope or fear I awaited the issue, I scarcely know. I
dared not glance beyond the passing hour; dared not conjecture what the
end would be. The past was dead; the future yet unborn. For the moment
my whole being was concentrated upon the conflict between life and
death, which was witnessed only by the curé and Tardif.