He drew near, and,
leaning over the bed, so that his mouth almost touched the sick woman's
ear, he murmured: "Mother, it is I, Noel, your own Noel. Speak to me,
make some sign, do you hear me, mother?"
It was in vain; she retained her frightful immobility. Not a sign of
intelligence crossed her features.
"You see," said the doctor, "I told you the truth."
"Poor woman!" sighed Noel, "does she suffer?"
"Not at present."
The nun now rose; and she too came beside the bed.
"Doctor," said she: "all is ready."
"Then call the servant, sister, to help us. We are going to apply a
mustard poultice."
The servant hastened in. In the arms of the two women, Madame Gerdy was
like a corpse, whom they were dressing for the last time. She was as
rigid as though she were dead. She must have suffered much and long,
poor woman, for it was pitiable to see how thin she was. The nun
herself was affected, although she had become habituated to the sight of
suffering. How many invalids had breathed their last in her arms during
the fifteen years that she had gone from pillow to pillow!
Noel, during this time, had retired into the window recess, and pressed
his burning brow against the panes.
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