She had been standing at the foot of the bed with her arms
hanging down beside her, showing the tearless resignation of a poor,
narrow-minded girl whilst she watched that dying man whom she worshipped.
She was no more than a faithful dog; she had accompanied her brother and
spent her scanty savings, without being of any use save to watch him
suffer. Accordingly, when the doctor told her to take the invalid in her
arms and raise him up a little, she felt quite happy at being of some
service at last. Her heavy, freckled, mournful face actually grew bright.
"Hold him," said the doctor, "whilst I try to give him this."
When she had raised him, Ferrand, with the aid of a small spoon,
succeeded in introducing a few drops of liquid between his set teeth.
Almost immediately the sick man opened his eyes and heaved a deep sigh.
He was calmer already; the opium was taking effect and dulling the pain
which he felt burning his right side, as though a red-hot iron were being
applied to it. However, he remained so weak that, when he wished to
speak, it became necessary to place one's ear close to his mouth in order
to catch what he said. With a slight sign he had begged Ferrand to bend
over him. "You are the doctor, monsieur, are you not?" he faltered. "Give
me sufficient strength that I may go once more to the Grotto, this
afternoon. I am certain that, if I am able to go, the Blessed Virgin will
cure me."
"Why, of course you shall go," replied the young man.
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