"They serve God well,
Who serve His creatures."
_The Lady of La Garaye_.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The first person who confronted them within the hospital doors was
Nannon. She had learned Therese's intentions from Madame Roulleau, and
had come away at once with the hope of changing what she fancied was no
more than a girl's foolish excited whim. Therese's delay had frightened
her even more than the first hearing of her scheme; and now, when she
saw her enter with M. Deshoulieres, after a momentary sensation of
relief, her heart sank with the conviction that if M. Deshoulieres was
in favour of her being so cruelly sacrificed, not all the talking in the
world would take her away from the place. And, indeed, Therese stopped
her first exclamation.
"Hush, Nannon. It is of no use. Every thing is decided."
The old woman was so aghast that she fell back at once upon her
strongest card, which she had intended reserving for the end of her
argument.
"Mademoiselle--listen then--mademoiselle, what would M. Fabien say?"
"M. Fabien!" M. Deshoulieres, who was a little in advance, turned
round and said this. They all looked at one another for a moment, and
then he went on slowly and quietly: "She is right. We have not thought
enough. I implore you, mademoiselle, for the sake of Monsieur
Saint-Martin, to return with her to the upper town." The light from a
lamp fell on his head. Nannon said to herself admiringly, "After all he
has a noble face, that man." Therese answered quickly, holding herself
at her full height as she spoke, "Do you think I have not thought of
him? Do you think any one I loved would keep me back?"
At another moment she could not have spoken out her heart's affection in
such a manner, shyness and custom would have prevented it; but now
something seemed to demand it, her allegiance to Fabien, she thought.
Max Deshoulieres, looking at her reverently, said, within himself, "I
pray, I pray to Heaven, she is not judging him from her own capacities
only." Nannon was silent, as people are when some strong feeling makes
itself known in their presence; Therese was resolute and decided, her
step light, she did not look like one who would consent to change; and
M. Deshoulieres, if he had been moved, was quiet again. All the old
woman could do was to ask to share the nursing; and, finally, she gained
permission to become a sort of medium of communication between the
hospital and the outer world, to fetch what was needed, and carry
messages to a house about a kilometre away, where convalescents were
tended by one of the trained sisters. After which M. Deshoulieres, who
felt an uncomfortable conviction that he had been persuaded against his
judgment and his wishes, fetched another sister, and delivered Therese
into her keeping.
"No work to-night, remember," was his last order as he hurried away.
"Then you will be on day duty," said the Sister, kissing her at once,
and looking at the pretty young face with a little brisk wonder. "That
is best. You shall sleep with me and with Sister Gabrielle. We want
more nurses sadly, only--my child, I look at you because you are so
young, and I wonder. Did your mother let you come?--ah, ah, I guess
what you would say. You are right. Yes, there were many of the blessed
saints younger than you; let me see, there was S. Lucy, S. Faith, S.
Prisca--"
She ran on with a long list of names, all the while leading the girl up
the broad staircase, with its stone balustrade. It was impossible to
put in a word; but her cheery voice and bright little apple-face looking
out of its black drapery gave the best welcome that Therese could have
received. Every thing was hopeful. The patients were better, a great
many of them. It was only a fever, and what was that to the plague?
Now, if they had lived in the East, it might have been the plague. It
was certain there would be rain soon. And those who were ill were so
patient and so good it was a delight to nurse them. All that she
touched grew bright; it was Therese's turn to look at her in wonder.
But when Sister Gabrielle came in to the clean, tiny room to take her
appointed hours of sleep, Therese gave a little jump of glad surprise.
It was the same _religieuse_ as she had watched and heard on the day
when she felt so sad and so desolate under the great Cathedral; the one
whose sweet calm voice she remembered with its quieting, "Soyez
tranquille, mon enfant." She remembered also the beautiful face, paler
and thinner now, but only more beautiful still. There was a rare
fascination and power about this woman,--the clearest common-sense, and
a spirituality which exalted it. Little Sister Annette became more
silent directly, and treated her with affectionate reverence. She acted
as head alike to the sisters and the lay nurses, and said a few words to
Therese upon her duties which touched and strengthened the girl
unspeakably. She was half-frightened, half-glad, to be there; but she
would not have gone back for the world, and although she went to bed
assured that sleep would never come, the "Soyez tranquille" returned in
dreams.
After that night she had no more dreams. She slept too heavily when the
time for sleeping came. M. Deshoulieres had done well to warn her,
Sister Gabrielle to strengthen her for it; there was so much that was
terrible and ghastly and full of horror. Not fear. There was no time
for fear. But she was very young and tender-hearted, and somehow, at
first, she had expected to see more relief, and to have the consolation
of soothing these poor souls more than she found by experience to be the
case. By and by she understood her position better, and was content to
look for less, and yet Sister Gabrielle told her, smiling, that she was
one of the most popular nurses among them all.
French organisation is the most perfect in the world, but the fever beat
the organisation. If all that M. Deshoulieres wanted had been done,
there would scarcely have been room enough for the fresh patients. As
it was, there was over-crowding and over-work. Now and then a nurse
failed, and was carried away to the infirmary at the convent. It was
found that such as fell ill for the first time at the hospital could not
recover there, and so they were taken away at once. The precautions to
avoid spreading the infection were strongly enforced. Still it spread.
People went about the streets softly, with an awe-struck look on their
faces. There were special services, litanies. Day after day the fierce
sun beat down on Charville; day after day the fever smote its victims;
day after day such doctors and such nurses as were spared were at their
posts, fighting it.
M. Deshoulieres seldom spoke to Therese, unless it was to give special
orders, and she was quite unconscious how narrowly he watched her during
this terrible time. He was ready to interfere at once if she flagged
But she did not flag. Her eye was brighter, her face was alive with
keener energy than he had seen in it yet. At first she had a great deal
to learn, but by and by it became evident that among all the brave women
who laboured there as women can labour, there was not one more
self-denying, more courageous, more tender than Mademoiselle Veuillot.
Where patient watching was needed, in cases where it seemed impossible
not to shrink, she stood her ground. When speech failed, and only mute
gestures, difficult to interpret, remained to the sufferer, those
pitiful grey eyes were quick to read the hidden meaning. When these,
too, ceased, and death followed upon his shadow, more than once dying
looks or dying lips faltered blessings upon the faithful nurse who stood
there faithful to the last.
And so it arrived that Sister Gabrielle told her that she was one of the
most popular nurses among them all.
M. Deshoulieres watched and wondered. She was different from what she
had been. He had known her well enough to know that. But he was
ignorant how the change had come, or, rather, how her character had thus
ripened and opened out. Perhaps it was the outbreak of a heart tender
enough to overcome selfishness. Perhaps there was a touch of shame
about it that her own trials had seemed so unendurable, now that she was
brought face to face with what we call life's great realities. Least of
all did he think, when he had time to think, which was not often, that
his own example had any thing to do with it. Yet so it was. Therese
had never been the same since that day when he and she had spoken
together; and, seeing him in the heart of his work at the hospital, she
owned that even yet she had not done him justice.
For now she could understand more fully what a great, noble heart was
this man's. She could understand why a soft light came into Sister
Gabrielle's eyes when she spoke of him--the sort of reverence with which
the attendants in the wards obeyed his bidding. It seemed to her as if
he, single-handed, did more to keep them all at work in the most
efficient manner, than the other members of the staff put together. It
seemed to her as if a great deal of the bravery and the cheerfulness
which distinguished the workers grew in some fashion out of this bravery
and cheerfulness which never failed. Always at his post, ready with
keen promptitude to decide the crowd of doubtful questions brought for
his opinions, accepting responsibilities from which others shrunk,--"My
friend, the Minister of Health is in Paris, and I am here," Therese
heard, him say one day, in answer to a timid objection from little M.
Pinot,--quick to note the first symptom of over-fatigue among the band
of nurses; encouraging Sister Annette's merry little sayings; swift,
patient, tender, inflexible, all at once. It was here that she first
realised Max Deshoulieres' kingdom.
Fanchon was well again. M. Deshoulieres found means to let her know
that. Nannon told her that the fever had not spread in the upper town;
there were only a few isolated cases. Madame Roulleau had said that
when there had been a little rain to cool the air, M. Roulleau would
return.
"Otherwise I think she will fetch him," said Nannon, laughing; "and,
_dame_, I believe the fever would be less terrible to him than madame
with her claws out."
"But will it ever rain again!" answered Therese, who was walking by a
cornfield in the early morning. All the nurses were compelled to be in
the open air for half air hour daily, and she had been on night duty
lately.
People asked that question a hundred times in the day. The sky, with
its bright sunny beauty, had grown quite terrible and fierce in their
eyes. Water was becoming scarce, the air was so heated that the nights
scarcely cooled it at all; while all this continued it was scarcely
possible that the fever should subside.
One day there was great sorrow in the hospital. Kind little Sister
Annette, whom every one loved, became dull, lost her appetite, and
complained of headache. Within an hour, M. Deshoulieres had taken her
himself to the convent, and a rumour got about that it was a bad case.
They missed her terribly. Her kindly, hopeful chatter had done more
than any of them knew to keep their spirits from sinking. Somehow it
was difficult to imagine her to be ill. Therese said so to Sister
Gabrielle one day in their little room, which two other sisters shared
with them now; and then Sister Gabrielle took her in her arms, and
kissed her, and said, with a spasm of pain working her beautiful face,
"She is not ill any longer, our dear sister; she is at rest."
Therese nearly broke down herself after this. Probably she would have
done so altogether if it had not been for M. Deshoulieres and Sister
Gabrielle, who watched her wisely and tenderly, and sent her more into
the cornfields with Nannon. The days came and went, she scarcely knew
how time passed, or that it was nearly five weeks since first she came
to the hospital. It seemed, at last, as if the fever was stationary--
the number of cases neither diminished nor increased.
But the sky was as fierce as ever.
One afternoon it changed. A greyness gathered over it, not big
satisfactory clouds, but still something of the nature of cloud. A few
scattered drops fell, enough to make large round holes in the white
dust, and then it all cleared away, and the stars came out, and on the
next morning the sun was braving it as undauntedly as he had done for
those weary weeks past, and the Charville world was gasping and panting,
and trying to make merry, with the thermometer at 90 degrees in the
shade, with pestilence upon them, and drought at their very doors.
Madame Roulleau, who had said that Ignace should not return until there
had been rain, was frantic at the delay. There were cases of sunstroke
among the reapers, a few old feeble people died literally of exhaustion
from the stifling heat. Monseigneur at the Eveche had been at death's
door, and had driven them all distracted by refusing to allow M.
Deshoulieres to be called away from his other work, until he became so
weak that his will had no longer any power of influencing them, and M.
l'Abbe took matters into his own hands. But, indeed, those evil days
brought out rare instances of devotion.
There came, at last, one day and night which exceeded every day and
night that had gone before. Each door and window in the hospital was
open, but it seemed as if all the air had gone out of the world. One or
two of the patients who were thought to be doing well failed again, and
sank rapidly on that terrible night. Great revolving fans had been
placed in the wards, and were kept in motion continually, but nothing
seemed to break the oppression; the very nurses lost heart under it.
"Is it the end of the world?" one said, wearily. Therese, who had kept
up bravely, when morning came was so spent and languid, that she could
hardly drag herself across the ward. She flung herself across her
little bed, too exhausted to speak to the sister, who shared her turn of
rest, and fell into a dead, heavy sleep; when she awoke Sister Sara was
standing at the window.
"It has rained!" she cried out, joyfully, hearing Therese stir.
Therese had not heard the thunder or the heavy drops, but all the air
was cool, moist, and exquisitely delicious. Pools of water lay on the
leads, the sun just gleamed out from between dark clouds, and birds
chirped exultantly.
"Now we can breathe again, the saints be praised!" said the sister, with
her little commonplace face made beautiful by thankfulness.
"Poor Sister Annette! Her rain has come at last," said Therese, more
slowly.
There was a Te Deum at the Cathedral, but grateful hearts did not wait
for that to sing their own little special Te Deums. Never had the great
plains been so delightful in their eyes as now, when a dense grey pall
lay over them, blurring the outlines, creeping up thicker and thicker,
dark, watery, heavy masses. The thunder-clouds had come first, great
mountainous forms, with white mists floating across them; then followed
a few hours of clear, cool, enchanting weather, and afterwards the
plains were folded in the thick, close low rain, more beautiful to the
people than the most gorgeous colouring could have been. It made itself
felt upon the fever at once.
Not many days after, Therese was sent for to the little room in the
lobby, where Nannon was allowed to enter. Nannon was there, and M.
Deshoulieres also. Something in their faces made her ask quickly what
was the matter. It was very soon told. Nannon had come from Rue St
Servan, where little Adolphe had the fever, and was crying out piteously
for his mademoiselle, his dear Mademoiselle Therese.
"Shall you go, mademoiselle?" asked Nannon. M. Deshoulieres said
nothing, he only looked at her.
"Of course I shall go," answered Therese; "that is, if you think I can
be spared," she went on, appealing to him.
"That can be arranged," he said, gravely. "But do you understand what
you are doing? I fear these people have not treated you well."
"My poor little Adolphe!" was the girl's only answer. She had learned
something in these six weeks.
They were obliged to keep her departure a secret from the patients who
had been especially under her care. The nurses all kissed her; some of
them had tears in their eyes. With all her bravery, she was so young
that, when she went away, she clung to Sister Gabrielle and sobbed. "I
have been happier here than I ever was in my life before," she said,
between her sobs. I do not know whether it was really thus, but looking
back she thought so; and M. Deshoulieres, who could not bear to hear
her say it, went back to the ward suddenly, so that when she looked
round to wish him good-by, he was not there.
"Has that woman no perception, then," Nannon said, indignantly, as they
toiled up through the steep streets, "that she will not allow our doctor
to come? Monsieur Pinot is not bad, no, he is not bad, but he is like
the gosling waddling after the gander. Mademoiselle need not laugh, she
knows what I mean. What would you have? Charville could not expect to
see two M. Deshoulieres."
Nannon had been converted utterly, and like other converts she was not
fond of hearing her former opinions quoted.
"After all," she went on, "I am glad mademoiselle is out of that place."
"Is the poor child very ill?"
"I believe so," said the old woman, shrugging her shoulders. "Madame
fought against it for days, she said it should not be the fever; she was
like a mad woman. But now she is frightened. She loves her children,
that wild-cat! Ouf, I am out of breath! Such a summer as this does not
make one younger."
So they went their way, picking their road over the wet stones, and
keeping clear of little torrents of water that here and there spouted
out wildly from the eaves. The flowers were gratefully drinking in the
soft rain; a beautiful rich geranium flamed out against a grey stone
background; the terrible oppressive cloud was lightened; there were
people moving about again; little children playing; one little mite in a
pink frock and a tight black cap, Therese longed to kiss, but she dared
not let them approach her. Presently a girl standing at a door smiled
and nodded and kissed both hands. It was Fanchon. The apparition gave
Therese a little thrill of delight. "It is so odd to think how horribly
frightened I was," she said to Nannon, "and now it all seems so
natural." She went on with a lightened heart. That little glimpse of
Fanchon, and afterwards the ever steadfast loveliness of the Cathedral,
did her good. At the door of the Roulleaus' house, Nannon detained her
for a moment.
"Listen, mademoiselle," she said. "Do you know last night I dreamed
that Monsieur Fabien was come!"
"And so did I," said Therese, smiling.
Madame in her linen camisole was at little Adolphe's bedside copying a
letter when Therese went softly into the room. Was she glad to see her?
The girl could not tell. She was rigid and defiant, and yet every now
and then an expression resembling terror flashed out from her eyes.
Adolphe was glad at all events. He knew her directly, and put out his
poor little weak arms. "Now you will tell me stories, mademoiselle," he
said, with a feeble triumph at having carried his own way. Therese knew
well by this time what to do, and she changed the whole aspect of the
uncomfortable little room in a few minutes. Every thing was put in
order and ready for use. Poor Adolphe did not really want any stories,
but, as he grew a little delirious in the evening, he said over and over
again, "il y avait un geant, il y avait un geant." Tears came into her
eyes as she heard the little thin voice wandering on. Nothing soothed
him so much as to have her close to his bedside, singing to him; and
madame, who was very silent, sat and watched them with a fierce, jealous
sorrow pulling at her heart. She knew little better than a baby what to
do in a sick-room, but she loved her children passionately. It cut her
to the heart that Adolphe should turn from her to another. It cut more
deeply still that this other should be Mademoiselle Veuillot.