Madame Jousseur, for her part, had simply turned round and
whispered a word or two in M. Dieulafay's ear, and then they had both
reverted to the heart-rending contemplation of their own dear invalid;
whilst Abbe Judaine, informed by M. Vigneron, knelt down, and in a low,
agitated voice recited the prayers for the dead. Was he not a Saint, that
missionary who had returned from a deadly climate, with a mortal wound in
his side, to die there, beneath the smiling gaze of the Blessed Virgin?
And Madame Maze, who also knew what had happened, suddenly felt a taste
for death, and resolved that she would implore Heaven to suppress her
also, in unobtrusive fashion, if it would not listen to her prayer and
give her back her husband.
But the cry of Father Massias rose into a still higher key, burst forth
with a strength of terrible despair, with a rending like that of a sob:
"Jesus, son of David, I am perishing, save me!"
And the crowd sobbed after him in unison "Jesus, son of David, I am
perishing, save me!"
Then, in quick succession, and in higher and higher keys, the appeals
went on proclaiming the intolerable misery of the world:
"Jesus, son of David, take pity on Thy sick children!"
"Jesus, son of David, take pity on Thy sick children!"
"Jesus, son of David, come, heal them, that they may live!"
"Jesus, son of David, come, heal them, that they may live!"
It was delirium. At the foot of the pulpit Father Fourcade, succumbing to
the extraordinary passion which overflowed from all hearts, had likewise
raised his arms, and was shouting the appeals in his thundering voice as
though to compel the intervention of Heaven.
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