CHAPTER VI.
SISTER SIMPLICE IS SORELY TRIED.
At this very moment Fantine was joyful. She had passed a very badnight, she had coughed fearfully, and her fever had become worse. Inthe morning, when the physician paid his visit, she was raving; he feltalarmed, and begged to be sent for so soon as M. Madeleine arrived.All the morning she was gloomy, said little, and made folds in sheets,while murmuring in a low voice, and calculating what seemed to bedistances. Her eyes were hollow and fixed, they seemed almost extinct,and then, at moments, they were relit, and flashed like stars. It seemsas if, on the approach of a certain dark hour, the brightness of heavenfills those whom the brightness of earth is quitting. Each time thatSister Simplice asked her how she was, she invariably answered, "Well,but I should like to see M. Madeleine."
A few months previously, at the time when Fantine lost her lastmodesty, her last shame, and her last joy, she was the shadow ofherself: now she was the ghost. Physical suffering had completed thework of moral suffering. This creature of five-and-twenty years ofage had a wrinkled forehead, sunken cheeks, a pinched nose, a leadencomplexion, a bony neck, projecting shoulder-blades, thin limbs, anearthy skin, and white hairs were mingled with the auburn. Alas! howillness improvises old age! At mid-day, the physician returned, wrote aprescription, inquired whether M. Madeleine had been to the infirmary,and shook his head. M. Madeleine usually came at three o'clock, andas punctuality was kindness, he was punctual. At about half-past twoFantine began to grow agitated, and in the next twenty minutes askedthe nun more than ten times, "What o'clock is it?"
Three o'clock struck: at the third stroke Fantine, who usually couldscarce move in her bed, sat up; she clasped her thin yellow hands in asort of convulsive grasp, and the nun heard one of those deep sighs,which seem to remove a crushing weight, burst from her chest. ThenFantine turned and looked at the door: but no one entered, and the doorwas not opened. She remained thus for a quarter of an hour, with hereyes fixed on the door, motionless, and holding her breath. The nun didnot dare speak to her, and as the clock struck the quarter, Fantinefell back on her pillow. She said nothing, and began again making foldsin the sheet. The half-hour passed, then the hour, and no one came.Each time the clock struck Fantine sat up, looked at the door, and thenfell back again. Her thoughts could be clearly read, but she did notsay a word, complain, or make any accusation: she merely coughed in asad way. It seemed as if something dark was settling down on her, forshe was livid and her lips were blue. She smiled every now and then.
When five o'clock struck, the nun heard her say very softly andsweetly, "As I am going away to-morrow, it was wrong of him not to cometo-day." Sister Simplice herself was surprised at M. Madeleine's delay.In the mean while Fantine looked up at the top of her bed, and seemedto be trying to remember something: all at once she began singing ina voice faint as a sigh. It was an old cradle-song with which she hadin former times lulled her little Cosette to sleep, and which had notonce recurred to her during the five years she had been parted from herchild. She sang with so sad a voice and to so soft an air, that it wasenough to make any one weep, even a nun. The sister, who was accustomedto austere things, felt a tear in her eye. The clock struck, andFantine did not seem to hear it: she appeared not to pay any attentionto things around her. Sister Simplice sent a servant-girl to inquire ofthe portress of the factory whether M. Madeleine had returned and wouldbe at the infirmary soon: the girl came back in a few minutes. Fantinewas still motionless and apparently engaged with her own thoughts. Theservant told Sister Simplice in a very low voice that the Mayor hadset off before six o'clock that morning in a small tilbury; that hehad gone alone, without a driver; that no one knew what direction hehad taken, for while some said they had seen him going along the Arrasroad, others declared they had met him on the Paris road. He was, asusual, very gentle, and he had merely told his servant she need notexpect him that night.
While the two women were whispering with their backs turned to Fantine,the sister questioning, and the servant conjecturing, Fantine, withthe feverish vivacity of certain organic maladies which blend the freemovements of health with the frightful weakness of death, had knelt inbed, with her two clenched hands supported by the pillow, and listenedwith her head thrust between the curtains. All at once she cried,--
"You are talking about M. Madeleine: why do you whisper? What is hedoing, and why does he not come?"
Her voice was so loud and hoarse that the two women fancied it a man'svoice, and they turned round in alarm.
"Answer!" Fantine cried.
The servant stammered,--
"The portress told me that he could not come to-day."
"My child," the sister said, "be calm and lie down again."
Fantine, without changing her attitude, went on in a loud voice andwith an accent at once imperious and heart-rending,--
"He cannot come: why not? You know the reason. You were whispering itto one another, and I insist on knowing."
The servant hastily whispered in the nun's ear, "Tell her that he isengaged at the Municipal Council."
Sister Simplice blushed slightly, for it was a falsehood that theservant proposed to her. On the other hand it seemed to her thattelling the patient the truth would doubtless deal her a terrible blow,and this was serious in Fantine's present condition. The blush lastedbut a little while: the sister fixed her calm sad eye on Fantine, andsaid,--
"The Mayor is gone on a journey."
Fantine rose and sat up on her heels, her eyes sparkled, and anineffable joy shone on her sad face.
"He has gone to fetch Cosette," she exclaimed.
Then she raised her hands to heaven, and her lips moved: she waspraying. When she had finished she said, "My sister, I am willing tolie down again and do everything you wish: I was naughty just now.I ask your pardon for having spoken so loud, for I know that it waswrong, good sister; but, look you, I am so happy. God is good, and M.Madeleine is good: only think, he has gone to Montfermeil to fetch mylittle Cosette."
She lay down again, helped the nun to smooth her pillow, and kissed alittle silver cross she wore on her neck, and which Sister Simplice hadgiven her.
"My child," the sister said, "try to go to sleep now, and do not speakany more."
"He started this morning for Paris, and indeed had no occasion to gothere; for Montfermeil is a little to the left before you get there.You remember how he said to me yesterday when I asked him aboutCosette, "Soon, soon"? He wishes to offer me a surprise, for, do youknow, he made me sign a letter to get her back from the Th?nardiers.They cannot refuse to give up Cosette, can they? for they are paid;the authorities would not allow a child to be kept, for now there isnothing owing. Sister, do not make me signs that I must not speak,for I am extremely happy: I am going on very well, I feel no pain atall; I am going to see Cosette again, and I even feel very hungry. Itis nearly five years since I saw her: you cannot imagine how a motherclings to her child,--and then she must be so pretty. She has suchpretty pink fingers, and she will have beautiful hands. She must bea great girl now, for she is going on to seven. I call her Cosette,but her real name is Euphrasie. This morning I was looking at thedust on the mantel-piece, and I had a notion that I should soon seeCosette again. Good Lord! how wrong it is for a mother to be so manyyears without seeing her child! She ought to reflect that life is noteternal. Oh, how kind it is of the Mayor to go! Is it true that it isso cold? I hope he took his cloak. He will be here again to-morrow,will he not? and we will make a holiday of it. To-morrow morning,sister, you will remind me to put on my little cap with the laceborder. Montfermeil is a great distance, and I came from there to thistown on foot, and it took me a long time; but the stage-coaches travelso quickly! He will be here to-morrow with Cosette. How far is it toMontfermeil?"
The sister, who had no notion of distances, answered, "Oh, I believe hecan be here to-morrow."
"To-morrow! to-morrow!" said Fantine; "I shall see Cosette to-morrow,my good sister! I am not ill now; I feel wild, and would dance if you
permitted me."
Any one who had seen her a quarter of an hour before would not haveunderstood it; she was now quite flushed, she spoke with an eagernatural voice, and her whole face was a smile. At times she laughedwhile speaking to herself in a low voice. A mother's joy is almost achildish joy.
"Well!" the nun said, "you are now happy. So obey me and do not speakany more."
Fantine laid her head on the pillow, and said in a low voice, "Yes,lie down, behave yourself, as you are going to have your child. SisterSimplice is right: all in this place are right."
And then, without stirring, without moving her head, she began lookingaround with widely opened eyes and a joyous air, and said nothing more.The sister closed the curtains, hoping she would fall off to sleep. Thephysician arrived between seven and eight o'clock. Hearing no sound,he fancied Fantine asleep. He entered softly and walked up to the bedon tip-toe. He opened the curtains, and by the light of the lamp sawFantine's large calm eyes fixed on him. She said to him,--
"Oh, sir, my child will be allowed to sleep in a little cot by mybed-side?"
The physician fancied she was delirious. She added,--
"Only look; there is exactly room."
The physician took Sister Simplice on one side who explained the matterto him: that M. Madeleine was absent for a day or two, and being indoubt they had not thought it right to undeceive the patient, whofancied that he had gone to Montfermeil, and she might possibly be inthe right. The physician approved, and drew near to Fantine's bed. Shesaid to him,--
"In the morning, when the poor darling wakes, I will say good-day toher, and at night I, who do not sleep, will listen to her sleeping. Hergentle little breathing will do me good."
"Give me your hand," said the physician.
"Oh yes, you do not know that I am cured. Cosette arrives to-morrow."
The physician was surprised to find her better: the oppression wasslighter, her pulse had regained strength, and a sort of altogetherunlooked-for life reanimated the poor exhausted being.
"Doctor," she continued, "has the sister told you that M. Madeleine hasgone to fetch my darling?"
The physician recommended silence, and that any painful emotion shouldbe avoided: he prescribed a dose of quinine, and if the fever returnedin the night, a sedative; and as he went away, he said to the sister:"She is better. If the Mayor were to arrive with the child to-morrow, Ido not know what would happen: there are such astounding crises; greatjoy has been known to check diseases; and though hers is an organicmalady, and in an advanced stage, it is all a mystery;--we mightperchance save her."