Unawares: A Story of an Old French Town

by Frances Mary Peard

One day there was great sorrow in the hospital. Kind little Sister Annette, whom every one loved, became dull, lost her appetite, and complained of headache. Within an hour, M. Deshoulières had taken her himself to the convent, and a rumour got about that it was a bad case. They missed her terribly. Her kindly, hopeful chatter had done more than any of them knew to keep their spirits from sinking. Somehow it was difficult to imagine her to be ill. Thérèse said so to Sister Gabrielle one day in their little room, which two other sisters shared with them now; and then Sister Gabrielle took her in her arms, and kissed her, and said, with a spasm of pain working her beautiful face, “She is not ill any longer, our dear sister; she is at rest.”

Thérèse nearly broke down herself after this. Probably she would have done so altogether if it had not been for M. Deshoulières and Sister Gabrielle, who watched her wisely and tenderly, and sent her more into the cornfields with Nannon. The days came and went, she scarcely knew how time passed, or that it was nearly five weeks since first she came to the hospital. It seemed, at last, as if the fever was stationary—the number of cases neither diminished nor increased.

But the sky was as fierce as ever.

One afternoon it changed. A greyness gathered over it, not big satisfactory clouds, but still something of the nature of cloud. A few scattered drops fell, enough to make large round holes in the white dust, and then it all cleared away, and the stars came out, and on the next morning the sun was braving it as undauntedly as he had done for those weary weeks past, and the Charville world was gasping and panting, and trying to make merry, with the thermometer at 90 degrees in the shade, with pestilence upon them, and drought at their very doors. Madame Roulleau, who had said that Ignace should not return until there had been rain, was frantic at the delay. There were cases of sunstroke among the reapers, a few old feeble people died literally of exhaustion from the stifling heat. Monseigneur at the Evêché had been at death’s door, and had driven them all distracted by refusing to allow M. Deshoulières to be called away from his other work, until he became so weak that his will had no longer any power of influencing them, and M. l’Abbé took matters into his own hands. But, indeed, those evil days brought out rare instances of devotion.

There came, at last, one day and night which exceeded every day and night that had gone before. Each door and window in the hospital was open, but it seemed as if all the air had gone out of the world. One or two of the patients who were thought to be doing well failed again, and sank rapidly on that terrible night. Great revolving fans had been placed in the wards, and were kept in motion continually, but nothing seemed to break the oppression; the very nurses lost heart under it. “Is it the end of the world?” one said, wearily. Thérèse, who had kept up bravely, when morning came was so spent and languid, that she could hardly drag herself across the ward. She flung herself across her little bed, too exhausted to speak to the sister, who shared her turn of rest, and fell into a dead, heavy sleep; when she awoke Sister Sara was standing at the window.

“It has rained!” she cried out, joyfully, hearing Thérèse stir.

Thérèse had not heard the thunder or the heavy drops, but all the air was cool, moist, and exquisitely delicious. Pools of water lay on the leads, the sun just gleamed out from between dark clouds, and birds chirped exultantly.

“Now we can breathe again, the saints be praised!” said the sister, with her little commonplace face made beautiful by thankfulness.

“Poor Sister Annette! Her rain has come at last,” said Thérèse, more slowly.

There was a Te Deum at the Cathedral, but grateful hearts did not wait for that to sing their own little special Te Deums. Never had the great plains been so delightful in their eyes as now, when a dense grey pall lay over them, blurring the outlines, creeping up thicker and thicker, dark, watery, heavy masses. The thunder-clouds had come first, great mountainous forms, with white mists floating across them; then followed a few hours of clear, cool, enchanting weather, and afterwards the plains were folded in the thick, close low rain, more beautiful to the people than the most gorgeous colouring could have been. It made itself felt upon the fever at once.