That evening Sister Désirée-des-Anges came into the room later than usual. She had been taking part in special prayer for Sister Marie-Aimée, who was going away to nurse the lepers.
Winter came again. Sister Désirée-des-Anges had soon guessed my love of reading, and she brought me all the books in the sisters' library, one after the other. Most of the books were childish books, and I read quickly, turning over several pages at a time. I preferred stories of travel, and I used to read at night by the night-light. Sister Désirée-des-Anges used to scold me when she woke up; but as soon as she went to sleep I took up the book again. Little by little we became great friends. The white curtain was no longer drawn between our beds at night time. All sense of constraint had disappeared between us, and all our thoughts were in common. She was cheerful and bright always. The one thing that annoyed her in her life was her nun's costume. She found it heavy and uncomfortable, and she used to say that it hurt her. "When I dress," she said, "I always feel as though I were putting myself into a house where it is always night." She was always glad to get out of her dress in the evening, and loved walking about the room in her night-dress. She used to say, making that funny little face, "I am beginning to get used to it, but at first that cap crushed my cheeks and the dress weighed my shoulders down."
When the spring came she began to cough. She had a little dry cough which used to make itself heard from time to time, and her long slim body seemed to become more fragile than ever. She was as bright and cheerful as before, but she complained that her dress became heavier and heavier.
One night in May she tossed about and dreamed aloud. I had been reading all night, and noticed all of a sudden that daylight was coming. I blew out the night-light and tried to sleep a little. I was just dropping off when Sister Désirée-des-Anges said, "Open the window, he is coming to-day." I looked to see whether she was asleep, and saw that she was sitting up in bed. She had drawn back her blanket, and was untying the strings of her night-cap. She took it off and threw it to the foot of the bed. Then she shook her head, her short hair rolled into curls on her forehead, and I recognized Désirée Joly at once. I was a little bit frightened, and got up. She said again, "Open the window and let him in." I opened the window wide, and when I turned round Sister Désirée-des-Anges was holding out her clasped hands towards the sun, and in a voice which had suddenly grown weaker, she said, "I have taken off my dress. I could not stand it any longer." She lay down quietly, and her face became quite still. I held my breath for a long time to listen to hers. Then I breathed hard, as though I could give her my breath, but when I looked at her more closely I saw that she had breathed her last. Her eyes were wide open, and seemed to be looking at a sunbeam which was coming towards her like a long arrow. Swallows flew past the window and flew back again, chirruping like little girls, and my ears were filled with sounds which I had never heard before. I looked up to the windows of the dormitories, hoping that somebody would hear what I had to say, but I saw nothing but the face of the big clock which seemed to be looking down into the room over the linden trees.
It was five o'clock. I pulled the blanket up over Sister Désirée-des-Anges and went out and rang the bell. I rang for a long time. The notes went far, far away. They went right away to where Sister Désirée-des-Anges had gone. I went on ringing because it seemed to me that the bells were telling the world that Sister Désirée-des-Anges was dead. I went on ringing too, because I hoped that she would pop her beautiful face out of the window and say, "That'll do, that'll do, Marie Claire."
Mélanie pulled the rope out of my hands. The bell, which was up, fell back all wrong, and gave a sort of groan. "You have been ringing for a quarter of an hour or more," Mélanie said. I answered, "Sister Désirée-des-Anges is dead." Veronique went into the room after us. She noticed that the white curtain was not drawn between the two beds, and said that she thought it was disgraceful for a religious to let her hair be seen. Mélanie passed her finger over a tear which was rolling down each of her cheeks. Her head was more on one side than ever, and she whispered quite low, "She is even prettier than she was before." The sunshine bathed the bed, and covered the dead woman from head to foot.
I remained with her all day. Some of the sisters came to see her. One of them covered her face with a napkin, but as soon as she had gone, I uncovered it again. Mélanie came and spent the night by the bedside with me. When she had closed the window she lit the big lamp, "so that Sister Désirée-des-Anges should not be in the dark," she said.