She no longer
spoke, no longer evinced any impatience, but had recovered her serenity
and relied on Heaven. From time to time she would simply glance towards
the platform to see if Father Massias were coming.
"Look at him, Gustave," said M. Vigneron to his son; "he must be
consumptive."
The lad, whom scrofula was eating away, whose hip was attacked by an
abscess, and in whom there were already signs of necrosis of the
vertebrae, seemed to take a passionate interest in the agony he thus
beheld. It did not frighten him, he smiled at it with a smile of infinite
sadness.
"Oh! how dreadful!" muttered Madame Chaise, who, living in continual
terror of a sudden attack which would carry her off, turned pale with the
fear of death.
"Ah! well," replied M. Vigneron, philosophically, "it will come to each
of us in turn. We are all mortal."
Thereupon, a painful, mocking expression came over Gustave's smile, as
though he had heard other words than those--perchance an unconscious
wish, the hope that the old aunt might die before he himself did, that he
would inherit the promised half-million of francs, and then not long
encumber his family.
"Put the boy down now," said Madame Vigneron to her husband. "You are
tiring him, holding him by the legs like that."
Then both she and Madame Chaise bestirred themselves in order that the
lad might not be shaken. The poor darling was so much in need of care and
attention. At each moment they feared that they might lose him.
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