"Will he be dead before night?" asked the Sister calmly.
"Oh no! He will live through the night. It is the same case as that of Raguideau three years ago; and Raguideau lasted forty-eight hours."
That evening, at ten o'clock, Sister Philomène might be seen entering the church of Notre Dame des Victoires.
The lamps were being lowered, the lighted tapers were being put out one by one with a long-handled extinguisher. The priest had just left the vestry.
The Sister inquired where he lived, and was told that his house was a couple of steps from the church, in the Rue de la Banque.
The priest was just going into the house when she entered behind, pushing open the door he was closing.
"Come in, Sister," he said, unfurling his wet umbrella and placing it on the tiled floor in the ante-room. And he turned toward her. She was on her knees. "What are you doing, Sister?" he said, astonished at her attitude. "Get up, my child. This is not a fit place. Come, get up!"
"You will save him, will you not?" and Philomène caught hold of the priest's hands as he stretched them out to help her to rise. "Why do you object to my remaining on my knees?"
"Come, come, my child, do not be so excited. It is God alone, remember, who can save. I can but pray."
"Ah! you can only pray," she said in a disappointed tone. "Yes, that is true."