Moreover, the sound of a fresh voice helped to bring him back to this annihilation, in which nothing was left of the cultured reasoner that he had formerly been. It was another preacher who had just entered the pulpit, a Capuchin this time, whose guttural call, persistently repeated, sent a tremor through the crowd.
“Holy Virgin of virgins, be blessed!”
“Holy Virgin of virgins, be blessed!”
“Holy Virgin of virgins, turn not thy face from thy children!”
“Holy Virgin of virgins, turn not thy face from thy children!”
“Holy Virgin of virgins, breathe upon our sores, and our sores shall heal!”
“Holy Virgin of virgins, breathe upon our sores, and our sores shall heal!”
At the end of the first bench, skirting the central path, which was becoming crowded, the Vigneron family had succeeded in finding room for themselves. They were all there: little Gustave, seated in a sinking posture, with his crutch between his legs; his mother, beside him, following the prayers like a punctilious bourgeoise; his aunt, Madame Chaise, on the other side, so inconvenienced by the crowd that she was stifling; and M. Vigneron, who remained silent and, for a moment, had been examining Madame Chaise attentively.
“What is the matter with you, my dear?” he inquired. “Do you feel unwell?”
She was breathing with difficulty. “Well, I don’t know,” she answered; “but I can’t feel my limbs, and my breath fails me.”