Prostrate on the seat, she had not opened her eyes,
but still and ever slumbered, tortured by atrocious dreams. And, with big
tears still streaming from her closed eyes, she had caught hold of the
pillow which had been forced upon her, and was closely pressing it to her
breast in some nightmare born of her suffering. Her poor arms, which had
so long carried her dying daughter, her arms now unoccupied, forever
empty, had found this cushion whilst she slept, and had coiled around
them, as around a phantom, with a blind and frantic embrace.
On the other hand, M. Sabathier had woke up feeling quite joyous. Whilst
his wife was pulling up his rug, carefully wrapping it round his lifeless
legs; he began to chat with sparkling eyes, once more basking in
illusion. He had dreamt of Lourdes, said he, and had seen the Blessed
Virgin leaning towards him with a smile of kindly promise. And then,
although he had before him both Madame Vincent, that mother whose
daughter the Virgin had allowed to die, and La Grivotte, the wretched
woman whom she had healed and who had so cruelly relapsed into her mortal
disease, he nevertheless rejoiced and made merry, repeating to M. de
Guersaint, with an air of perfect conviction: "Oh! I shall return home
quite easy in mind, monsieur--I shall be cured next year.
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