She thereupon drew Sister's Hyacinthe's attention to him: "Look, Sister!
One would think that that gentleman is dangerously ill."
"Which one, my dear child?"
"That one, over there, with his head thrown back."
General excitement followed, all the healthy pilgrims rose up to look,
and it occurred to Madame de Jonquiere to call to Marthe, Brother
Isidore's sister, and tell her to tap the man's hands.
"Question him," she added; "ask what ails him."
Marthe drew near, shook the man, and questioned him.
But instead of an answer only a rattle came from his throat, and his eyes
remained closed.
Then a frightened voice was heard saying, "I think he is going to die."
The dread increased, words flew about, advice was tendered from one to
the other end of the carriage. Nobody knew the man. He had certainly not
obtained /hospitalisation/, for no white card was hanging from his neck.
Somebody related, however, that he had seen him arrive, dragging himself
along, but three minutes or so before the train started; and that he had
remained quite motionless, scarce breathing, ever since he had flung
himself with an air of intense weariness into that corner, where he was
now apparently dying. His ticket was at last seen protruding from under
the band of an old silk hat which was hung from a peg near him.
"Ah, he is breathing again now!" Sister Hyacinthe suddenly exclaimed.
"Ask him his name."
However, on being again questioned by Marthe, the man merely gave vent to
a low plaint, an exclamation scarcely articulated, "Oh, how I suffer!"
And thenceforward that was the only answer that could be obtained from
him.
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