Malaga wine, and Virginia, laughing at the idea of becoming
intoxicated, would drink a few drops of it, but never more.

Her strength returned. Autumn passed. Felicite began to reassure
Madame Aubain. But, one evening, when she returned home after an

errand, she met M. Boupart's coach in front of the door; M. Boupart
himself was standing in the vestibule and Madame Aubain was tying the

strings of her bonnet. "Give me my foot-warmer, my purse and my
gloves; and be quick about it," she said.

Virginia had congestion of the lungs; perhaps it was desperate.
"Not yet," said the physician, and both got into the carriage, while

the snow fell in thick flakes. It was almost night and very cold.
Felicite rushed to the church to light a candle. Then she ran after

the coach which she overtook after an hour's chase, sprang up behind
and held on to the straps. But suddenly a thought crossed her mind:

"The yard had been left open; supposing that burglars got in!" And
down she jumped.

The next morning, at daybreak, she called at the doctor's. He had been
home, but had left again. Then she waited at the inn, thinking that

strangers might bring her a letter. At last, at daylight she took the
diligence for Lisieux.

The convent was at the end of a steep and narrow street. When she
arrived about at the middle of it, she heard strange noises, a funeral

knell. "It must be for some one else," thought she; and she pulled the
knocker violently.

After several 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 doublyunhappy, 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 to join her
child, and cried in the midst of her dreams. Of the latter, one more

especially haunted her. Her husband, dressed like a sailor, had come
back from a long voyage, and with tears in his eyes told her that he

had received the order to take Virginia away. Then they both consulted
about a hiding-place.

Once she came in from the garden, all upset. A moment before (and she
showed the place), the father and daughter had appeared to her, one

after the other; they did nothing but look at her.
During several months she remained inert in her room. Felicite scolded

her gently; she must keep up for her son and also for the other one,
for "her memory."

"Her memory!" replied Madame Aubain, as if she were just awakening,
"Oh! yes, yes, you do not forget her!" This was an allusion to the

cemetery where she had been expresslyforbidden to go
But Felicite went there every day. At four o'clock exactly, she would

go through the town, climb the hill, open the gate and arrive at
Virginia's tomb. It was a small column of pink marble with a flat

stone at its base, and it was surrounded by a little plot enclosed by
chains. The flower-beds were bright with blossoms. Felicite watered

their leaves, renewed the gravel, and knelt on the ground in order to
till the earth properly. When Madame Aubain was able to visit the

cemetery she felt very much relieved and consoled.
Years passed, all alike and marked by no other events than the return

of the great church holidays: Easter, Assumption, All Saints' Day.
Household happenings constituted the only data to which in later years

they often referred. Thus, in 1825, workmen painted the vestibule; in
1827, a portion of the roof almost killed a man by falling into the

yard. In the summer of 1828, it was Madame's turn to offer the
hallowed bread; at that time, Bourais disappeared mysteriously; and

the old acquaintances, Guyot, Liebard, Madame Lechaptois, Robelin, old
Gremanville, paralysed since a long time, passed away one by one. One

night, the driver of the mail in Pont-l'Eveque announced the
Revolution of July. A few days afterward a new sub-prefect was

nominated, the Baron de Larsonniere, ex-consul in America, who,
besides his wife, had his sister-in-law and her three grown daughters

with him. They were often seen on their lawn, dressed in loose
blouses, and they had a parrot and a negro servant. Madame Aubain

received a call, which she returned promptly. As soon as she caught
sight of them, Felicite would run and notify her mistress. But only

one thing was capable of arousing her: a letter from her son.
He could not follow any profession as he was absorbed in drinking. His

mother paid his debts and he made fresh ones; and the sighs that she
heaved while she knitted at the window reached the ears of Felicite

who was spinning in the kitchen.
They walked in the garden together, always speaking of Virginia, and

asking each other if such and such a thing would have pleased her, and
what she would probably have said on this or that occasion.

All her little belongings were put away in a closet of the room which
held the two little beds. But Madame Aubain looked them over as little

as possible. One summer day, however, she resigned herself to the task
and when she opened the closet the moths flew out.

Virginia's frocks were hung under a shelf where there were three
dolls, some hoops, a doll-house, and a basic which she had used.

Felicite and Madame Aubain also took out the skirts, the
handkerchiefs, and the stockings and spread them on the beds, before

putting them away again. The sun fell on the piteous things,
disclosing their spots and the creases formed by the motions of the

body. The atmosphere was warm and blue, and a blackbird trilled in the
garden; everything seemed to live in happiness. They found a little

hat of soft brown plush, but it was entirely moth-eaten. Felicite
asked for it. Their eyes met and filled with tears; at last the

mistress opened her arms and the servant threw herself against her
breast and they hugged each other and giving vent to their grief in a

kiss which equalised them for a moment.
It was the first time that this had ever happened, for Madame Aubain