The first person who confronted them within the hospital doors was Nannon. She had learned Thérèse’s intentions from Madame Roulleau, and had come away at once with the hope of changing what she fancied was no more than a girl’s foolish excited whim. Thérèse’s delay had frightened her even more than the first hearing of her scheme; and now, when she saw her enter with M. Deshoulières, after a momentary sensation of relief, her heart sank with the conviction that if M. Deshoulières was in favour of her being so cruelly sacrificed, not all the talking in the world would take her away from the place. And, indeed, Thérèse stopped her first exclamation.
“Hush, Nannon. It is of no use. Every thing is decided.”
The old woman was so aghast that she fell back at once upon her strongest card, which she had intended reserving for the end of her argument.
“Mademoiselle—listen then—mademoiselle, what would M. Fabien say?”
“M. Fabien!” M. Deshoulières, who was a little in advance, turned round and said this. They all looked at one another for a moment, and then he went on slowly and quietly: “She is right. We have not thought enough. I implore you, mademoiselle, for the sake of Monsieur Saint-Martin, to return with her to the upper town.” The light from a lamp fell on his head. Nannon said to herself admiringly, “After all he has a noble face, that man.” Thérèse answered quickly, holding herself at her full height as she spoke, “Do you think I have not thought of him? Do you think any one I loved would keep me back?”
At another moment she could not have spoken out her heart’s affection in such a manner, shyness and custom would have prevented it; but now something seemed to demand it, her allegiance to Fabien, she thought. Max Deshoulières, looking at her reverently, said, within himself, “I pray, I pray to Heaven, she is not judging him from her own capacities only.” Nannon was silent, as people are when some strong feeling makes itself known in their presence; Thérèse was resolute and decided, her step light, she did not look like one who would consent to change; and M. Deshoulières, if he had been moved, was quiet again. All the old woman could do was to ask to share the nursing; and, finally, she gained permission to become a sort of medium of communication between the hospital and the outer world, to fetch what was needed, and carry messages to a house about a kilometre away, where convalescents were tended by one of the trained sisters. After which M. Deshoulières, who felt an uncomfortable conviction that he had been persuaded against his judgment and his wishes, fetched another sister, and delivered Thérèse into her keeping.
“No work to-night, remember,” was his last order as he hurried away.
“Then you will be on day duty,” said the Sister, kissing her at once, and looking at the pretty young face with a little brisk wonder. “That is best. You shall sleep with me and with Sister Gabrielle. We want more nurses sadly, only—my child, I look at you because you are so young, and I wonder. Did your mother let you come?—ah, ah, I guess what you would say. You are right. Yes, there were many of the blessed saints younger than you; let me see, there was S. Lucy, S. Faith, S. Prisca—”
She ran on with a long list of names, all the while leading the girl up the broad staircase, with its stone balustrade. It was impossible to put in a word; but her cheery voice and bright little apple-face looking out of its black drapery gave the best welcome that Thérèse could have received. Every thing was hopeful. The patients were better, a great many of them. It was only a fever, and what was that to the plague? Now, if they had lived in the East, it might have been the plague. It was certain there would be rain soon. And those who were ill were so patient and so good it was a delight to nurse them. All that she touched grew bright; it was Thérèse’s turn to look at her in wonder. But when Sister Gabrielle came in to the clean, tiny room to take her appointed hours of sleep, Thérèse gave a little jump of glad surprise. It was the same réligieuse as she had watched and heard on the day when she felt so sad and so desolate under the great Cathedral; the one whose sweet calm voice she remembered with its quieting, “Soyez tranquille, mon enfant.” She remembered also the beautiful face, paler and thinner now, but only more beautiful still. There was a rare fascination and power about this woman,—the clearest common-sense, and a spirituality which exalted it. Little Sister Annette became more silent directly, and treated her with affectionate reverence. She acted as head alike to the sisters and the lay nurses, and said a few words to Thérèse upon her duties which touched and strengthened the girl unspeakably. She was half-frightened, half-glad, to be there; but she would not have gone back for the world, and although she went to bed assured that sleep would never come, the “Soyez tranquille” returned in dreams.