Inconsolable, bowed down by the loss of their last hope,
her husband and sister, their eyes red, were following her with Abbe
Judaine, even as one follows a corpse to the grave.
"No, no! not yet!" said the old priest to the bearers, in order to
prevent them from placing the box in the carriage. "She will have time
enough to roll along in there. Let her have the warmth of that lovely sky
above her till the last possible moment."
Then, seeing Pierre near him, he drew him a few steps aside, and, in a
voice broken by grief, resumed: "Ah! I am indeed distressed. Again this
morning I had a hope. I had her taken to the Grotto, I said my mass for
her, and came back to pray till eleven o'clock. But nothing came of it;
the Blessed Virgin did not listen to me. Although she cured me, a poor,
useless old man like me, I could not obtain from her the cure of this
beautiful, young, and wealthy woman, whose life ought to be a continual
/fete/. Undoubtedly the Blessed Virgin knows what she ought to do better
than ourselves, and I bow and bless her name. Nevertheless, my soul is
full of frightful sadness."
He did not tell everything; he did not confess the thought which was
upsetting him, simple, childish, worthy man that he was, whose life had
never been troubled by either passion or doubt.
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