There could be no mistake, and Pierre again
pictured the compartments full of his travelling companions. Some
cushions already marked M. Sabathier's corner, and on the seat where
Marie had experienced such suffering he still found some scratches caused
by the ironwork of her box. Then, having deposited his valise in his own
place, he remained on the platform waiting and looking around him, with a
slight feeling of surprise at not perceiving Doctor Chassaigne, who had
promised to come and embrace him before the train started.
Now that Marie was well again, Pierre had laid his bearer straps aside,
and merely wore the red cross of the pilgrimage on his cassock. The
station, of which he had caught but a glimpse, in the livid dawn amidst
the anguish of the terrible morning of their arrival, now surprised him
by its spacious platforms, its broad exits, and its clear gaiety. He
could not see the mountains, but some verdant slopes rose up on the other
side, in front of the waiting-rooms; and that afternoon the weather was
delightfully mild, the sky of a milky whiteness, with light fleecy clouds
veiling the sun, whence there fell a broad diffuse light, like a
nacreous, pearly dust: "maiden's weather," as country folk are wont to
say.
The big clock had just struck three, and Pierre was looking at it when he
saw Madame Desagneaux and Madame Volmar arrive, followed by Madame de
Jonquiere and her daughter. These ladies, who had driven from the
hospital in a landau, at once began looking for their carriage, and it
was Raymonde who first recognised the first-class compartment in which
she had travelled from Paris.
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