Both Luc and Carola recognized her by her apple-green bodice and red and white skirts: she was the little dancer on the tight-rope at the fête.
Luc made a step forward, but Carola caught his arm.
“It is the smallpox!” she whispered. “What are we going to do?”
Luc looked at her.
“You should not be here,” he said.
The child began to talk in some kind of patois.
“She is saying her prayers,” said Luc, who knew the dialect of the district. He shook his arm free from Carola, went to the humble bed, and took the small, cold, heavy hand of the sick child in his. “What is the matter, eh?” he asked, in a tone of great tenderness. “You are not alone now.”
“You have done a mad thing,” said Carola, in a quivering voice. “You cannot return to Aix now.”
He lifted his calm, beautiful face, round which the soft locks of hazel hair had loosened.
“No,” he said, very gravely—“not until I know if this is the smallpox or not.”