Then Marthe closed the door, and having done so, drew nearer to the Abbé and said to him:
'I want to speak to you.'
She sat down and looked about the room, at the narrow bed, the shabby chest of drawers, and at the big black wooden crucifix, the sight of which, as it stood out conspicuously on the bare wall, gave her a passing thrill. A freezing silence seemed to fall from the ceiling. The grate was quite empty; there was not even a pinch of ashes in it.
'You will take cold,' said the priest in a calmer voice. 'Let us go downstairs, I beg you.'
'No; I want to speak to you,' said Marthe again.
Then, clasping her hands together like a penitent making her confession, she continued:
'I owe you much. Before you came, I was without a soul. It was you who willed that I should be saved. It is through you that I have known the only joys of my life. You are my saviour and my father. For these last five years I have only lived through you and for you.'
Her voice broke down and she almost slipped upon her knees. The priest stopped her with a gesture.
'And now, to-day,' she cried, 'I am suffering and have need of your help. Listen to me, father. Do not withdraw from me. You cannot abandon me thus. I tell you that God does not listen to me any longer. I do not feel His presence any longer. Have pity upon me, I beseech you. Advise me, lead me to those divine graces whose first joys you made me know; teach me what I should do to cure myself, and ever advance in the love of God.'