Mademoiselle had just risen on Saturday morning. She was making a little
package of four jars of Bar preserves, which she intended to carry to
Germinie the next day, when she heard low voices, a colloquy between the
housekeeper and the concierge in the reception room. Almost immediately
the door opened and the concierge came in.
"Sad news, mademoiselle," he said.
And he handed her a letter he had in his hand; it bore the stamp of the
Lariboisiere hospital: Germinie was dead; she died at seven o'clock that
morning.
Mademoiselle took the letter; she saw only the letters that said: "Dead!
dead!" And they repeated the word: "Dead! dead!" to no purpose, for she
could not believe it. As is always the case with a person of whose death
one learns abruptly, Germinie appeared to her instinct with life, and
her body, which was no more, seemed to stand before her with the
awe-inspiring presence of a ghost. Dead! She should never see her more!
So there was no longer a Germinie on earth! Dead! She was dead! And the
person she should hear henceforth moving about in the kitchen would not
be she; somebody else would open the door for her, somebody else would
potter about her room in the morning! "Germinie!" she cried at last, in
the tone with which she was accustomed to call her; then, collecting her
thoughts: "Machine! creature! What's your name?" she cried, savagely, to
the bewildered housekeeper. "My dress--I must go there."
She was so taken by surprise by this sudden fatal termination of the
disease, that she could not accustom her mind to the thought. She could
hardly realize that sudden, secret, vague death, of which her only
knowledge was derived from a scrap of paper. Was Germinie really dead?
Mademoiselle asked herself the question with the doubt of persons who
have lost a dear one far away, and, not having seen her die, do not
admit that she is dead. Was she not still alive the last time she saw
her? How could it have happened? How could she so suddenly have become a
thing good for nothing except to be put under ground? Mademoiselle dared
not think about it, and yet she kept on thinking. The mystery of the
death-agony, of which she knew nothing, attracted and terrified her. The
anxious interest of her affection turned to her maid's last hours, and
she tried gropingly to take away the veil and repel the feeling of
horror. Then she was seized with an irresistible longing to know
everything, to witness, with the help of what might be told her, what
she had not seen. She felt that she must know if Germinie had spoken
before she died,--if she had expressed any desire, spoken of any last
wishes, uttered one of those sentences which are the final outcry of
life.
When she reached Lariboisiere, she passed the concierge,--a stout man
reeking with life as one reeks with wine,--passed through the corridors
where pallid convalescents were gliding hither and thither, and rang at
a door, veiled with white curtains, at the extreme end of the hospital.
The door was opened: she found herself in a parlor, lighted by two
windows, where a plaster cast of the Virgin stood upon an altar, between
two views of Vesuvius, which seemed to shiver against the bare wall.
Behind her, through an open door, came the voices of Sisters and little
girls chattering together, a clamor of youthful voices and fresh
laughter, the natural gayety of a cheery room where the sun frolics with
children at play.
Mademoiselle asked to speak with the _mother_ of Salle Sainte-Josephine.
A short, half-deformed Sister, with a kind, homely face, a face alight
with the grace of God, came in answer to her request. Germinie had died
in her arms. "She hardly suffered at all," the Sister told mademoiselle;
"she was sure that she was better; she felt relieved; she was full of
hope. About seven this morning, just as her bed was being made, she
suddenly began vomiting blood, and passed away without knowing that she
was dying." The Sister added that she had said nothing, asked for
nothing, expressed no wish.
Mademoiselle rose, delivered from the horrible thoughts she had had.
Germinie had been spared all the tortures of the death-agony that she
had dreamed of. Mademoiselle was grateful for that death by the hand of
God which gathers in the soul at a single stroke.
As she was going away an attendant came to her and said: "Will you be
kind enough to identify the body?"
_The body!_ The words gave mademoiselle a terrible shock. Without
awaiting her reply, the attendant led the way to a high yellow door,
over which was written: _Amphitheatre_. He knocked; a man in shirt
sleeves, with a pipe in his mouth, opened the door and bade them wait a
moment.
Mademoiselle waited. Her thoughts terrified her. Her imagination was on
the other side of that awful door. She tried to anticipate what she was
about to see. And her mind was so filled with confused images, with
fanciful alarms, that she shuddered at the thought of entering the room,
of recognizing that disfigured face among a number of others, if,
indeed, she could recognize it! And yet she could not tear herself away;
she said to herself that she should never see her again!
The man with the pipe opened the door: mademoiselle saw nothing but a
coffin, the lid of which extended only to the neck, leaving Germinie's
face uncovered, with the eyes open, and the hair erect upon her head.