so quickly,
that the urchins in the street thought some accident had happened, when
they saw her trotting off like that.

* * * * *

The priest came immediately in his surplice, preceded by a choir-boy,
who rang a bell, to announce the passage of the Host through the parched
and quiet country. Some men, who were working at a distance, took off
their large hats and remained motionless until the white vestment had
disappeared behind some farm buildings; the women who were making up the
sheaves, stood up to make the sign of the cross; the frightened black
hens ran away along the ditch until they reached a well-known hole
through which they suddenly disappeared, while a foal, which was tied up
in a meadow, took fright at the sight of the surplice and began to turn
round at the length of its rope, kicking violently. The choir-boy, in
his red cassock, walked quickly, and the priest, with his head inclined
towards one shoulder, and with his square biretta on his head, followed
him, muttering some prayers, and last of all came la Rapet, bent almost
double, as if she wished to prostrate herself as she walked with folded
hands, as if she were in church.

Honore saw them pass in the distance, and he asked: "Where is our priest
going to?" And his man, who was more acute, replied: "He is taking the
sacrament to your mother, of course!"

The peasant was not surprised, and said: "That is quite possible," and
went on with his work.

Mother Bontemps confessed, received absolution and communion, and the
priest took his departure, leaving the two women alone in the
suffocating cottage, while la Rapet began to look at the dying woman,
and to ask herself whether it could last much longer.

The day was on the wane, and a cooler air came in stronger puffs, and
made a view of Epinal, which was fastened to the wall by two pins, flap
up and down, the scanty window curtains, which had formerly been white,
but were now yellow and covered with fly-specks, looked as if they were
going to fly off and seemed to struggle to get away, like the old
woman's soul.

She lying motionless, with her eyes open, seemed to await that death
which was so near and which yet delayed its coming, with perfect
indifference. Her short breath whistled in her tightening throat. It
would stop altogether soon, and there would be one woman less in the
world, whom nobody would regret.

At nightfall Honore returned, and when he went up t