“No, no! we must do something,” exclaimed Madame Desagneaux. And thereupon she went and fetched Madame de Jonquiere from beside Marie’s bed. “Look how this poor creature is suffering, madame!” she exclaimed. “Sister Hyacinthe says that she can only last a few hours longer. But we cannot leave her moaning like this. There are things which give relief. Why not call that young doctor who is here?”
“Of course we will,” replied the superintendent. “We will send for him at once.”
They seldom thought of the doctor in the wards. It only occurred to the ladies to send for him when a case was at its very worst, when one of their patients was howling with pain. Sister Hyacinthe, who herself felt surprised at not having thought of Ferrand, whom she believed to be in an adjoining room, inquired if she should fetch him.
“Certainly,” was the reply. “Bring him as quickly as possible.”
When the Sister had gone off, Madame de Jonquiere made Madame Desagneaux help her in slightly raising the dying woman’s head, thinking that this might relieve her. The two ladies happened to be alone there that morning, all the other lady-hospitallers having gone to their devotions or their private affairs. However, from the end of the large deserted ward, where, amidst the warm quiver of the sunlight such sweet tranquillity prevailed, there still came at intervals the light laughter of the unseen child.
“Can it be Sophie who is making such a noise?” suddenly asked the lady-superintendent, whose nerves were somewhat upset by all the worry of the death which she foresaw. Then quickly walking to the end of the ward, she found that it was indeed Sophie Couteau—the young girl so miraculously healed the previous year—who, seated on the floor behind a bed, had been amusing herself, despite her fourteen years, in making a doll out of a few rags. She was now talking to it, so happy, so absorbed in her play, that she laughed quite heartily. “Hold yourself up, mademoiselle,” said she. “Dance the polka, that I may see how you can do it! One! two! dance, turn, kiss the one you like best!”
Madame de Jonquiere, however, was now coming up. “Little girl,” she said, “we have one of our patients here in great pain, and not expected to recover. You must not laugh so loud.”
“Ah! madame, I didn’t know,” replied Sophie, rising up, and becoming quite serious, although still holding the doll in her hand. “Is she going to die, madame?”
“I fear so, my poor child.”
Thereupon Sophie became quite silent. She followed the superintendent, and seated herself on an adjoining bed; whence, without the slightest sign of fear, but with her large eyes burning with curiosity, she began to watch Madame Vetu’s death agony. In her nervous state, Madame Desagneaux was growing impatient at the delay in the doctor’s arrival; whilst Marie, still enraptured, and resplendent in the sunlight, seemed unconscious of what was taking place about her, wrapt as she was in delightful expectancy of the miracle.