al minutes had elapsed, she heard footsteps, the door
was half opened and a nun appeared. The good sister, with an air of
compunction, told her that "she had just passed away." And at the same
time the tolling of Saint-Leonard's increased.

Felicite reached the second floor. Already at the threshold, she caught
sight of Virginia lying on her back, with clasped hands, her mouth open
and her head thrown back, beneath a black crucifix inclined toward her,
and stiff curtains which were less white than her face. Madame Aubain
lay at the foot of the couch, clasping it with her arms and uttering
groans of agony. The Mother Superior was standing on the right side of
the bed. The three candles on the bureau made red blurs, and the windows
were dimmed by the fog outside. The nuns carried Madame Aubain from the
room.

For two nights, Felicite never left the corpse. She would repeat the
same prayers, sprinkle holy water over the sheets, get up, come back
to the bed and contemplate the body. At the end of the first vigil, she
noticed that the face had taken on a yellow tinge, the lips grew blue,
the nose grew pinched, the eyes were sunken. She kissed them several
times and would not have been greatly astonished had Virginia opened
them; to souls like this the supernatural is always quite simple. She
washed her, wrapped her in a shroud, put her into the casket, laid a
wreath of flowers on her head and arranged her curls. They were blond
and of an extraordinary length for her age. Felicite cut off a big lock
and put half of it into her bosom, resolving never to part with it.

The body was taken to Pont-l'Eveque, according to Madame Aubain's
wishes; she followed the hearse in a closed carriage.

After the ceremony it took three quarters of an hour to reach the
cemetery. Paul, sobbing, headed the procession; Monsieur Bourais
followed, and then came the principle inhabitants of the town, the women
covered with black capes, and Felicite. The memory of her nephew, and
the thought that she had not been able to render him these honours,
made her doubly unhappy, and she felt as if he were being buried with
Virginia.

Madame Aubain's grief was uncontrollable. At first she rebelled against
God, thinking that he was unjust to have taken away her child--she who
had never done anything wrong, and whose conscience was so pure! But no!
she ought to have taken her South. Other doctors would have saved her.
She accused herself, prayed to be able