And, little by little,
from the disconnected sentences which mingled with her sobs, they learned
what a Calvary she had ascended since her daughter's death. On the
morning of the previous day, when she had carried the body off in her
arms amidst the storm, she must have long continued walking, blind and
deaf to everything, whilst the torrential rain beat down upon her. She no
longer remembered what squares she had crossed, what streets she had
traversed, as she roamed through that infamous Lourdes, that Lourdes
which killed little children, that Lourdes which she cursed.
"Ah! I can't remember, I can't remember," she faltered. "But some people
took me in, had pity upon me, some people whom I don't know, but who live
somewhere. Ah! I can't remember where, but it was somewhere high up, far
away, at the other end of the town. And they were certainly very poor
folk, for I can still see myself in a poor-looking room with my dear
little one who was quite cold, and whom they laid upon their bed."
At this recollection a fresh attack of sobbing shook her, in fact almost
stifled her.
"No, no," she at last resumed, "I would not part with her dear little
body by leaving it in that abominable town. And I can't tell exactly how
it happened, but it must have been those poor people who took me with
them.
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