But the slumber which reigned in
the carriage seemed more heavy even than before. Her father was still
sleeping, with the innocent look of a big child. Not one of the pilgrims,
not one of the ailing ones, had stirred amidst the rough rocking which
bore them onward. Even Sister Hyacinthe, giving way to her overpowering
weariness, had just closed her eyes, after drawing the lamp-screen in her
own compartment. And now there were only vague shadows there, ill-defined
bodies amidst nameless things, ghostly forms scarce visible, which a
tempest blast, a furious rush, was carrying on and on through the
darkness. And she likewise distrusted that black country-side whose
unknown depths went by on either side of the train without one even being
able to tell what forests, what rivers, what hills one was crossing. A
short time back some bright sparks of light had appeared, possibly the
lights of some distant forges, or the woeful lamps of workers or
sufferers. Now, however, the night again streamed deeply all around, the
obscure, infinite, nameless sea, farther and farther through which they
ever went, not knowing where they were.
Then, with a chaste confusion, blushing amidst her tears, Marie placed
her lips near Pierre's ear. "Listen, my friend; there is a great secret
between the Blessed Virgin and myself. I had sworn that I would never
tell it to anybody. But you are too unhappy, you are suffering too
bitterly; she will forgive me; I will confide it to you.
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