"You'll stay a little while with us, won't you?" she asked Ferrand.
The latter, who was still watching Madame Vetu, replied: "Yes, yes. She
may go off at any moment. I fear hemorrhage." Then, catching sight of
Marie on the neighbouring bed, he added in a lower voice: "How is she?
Has she experienced any relief?"
"No, not yet. Ah, dear child! we all pray for her very sincerely. She is
so young, so sweet, and so sorely afflicted. Just look at her now! Isn't
she pretty? One might think her a saint amid all this sunshine, with her
large, ecstatic eyes, and her golden hair shining like an aureola!"
Ferrand watched Marie for a moment with interest. Her absent air, her
indifference to all about her, the ardent faith, the internal joy which
so completely absorbed her, surprised him. "She will recover," he
murmured, as though giving utterance to a prognostic. "She will recover."
Then he rejoined Sister Hyacinthe, who had seated herself in the
embrasure of the lofty window, which stood wide open, admitting the warm
air of the courtyard. The sun was now creeping round, and only a narrow
golden ray fell upon her white coif and wimple. Ferrand stood opposite to
her, leaning against the window bar and watching her while she sewed. "Do
you know, Sister," said he, "this journey to Lourdes, which I undertook
to oblige a friend, will be one of the few delights of my life."
She did not understand him, but innocently asked: "Why so?"
"Because I have found you again, because I am here with you, assisting
you in your admirable work.
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