When Joseph returned to her bedside
he had the good feeling to be silent. He did not speak of his brother
in the three weeks during which--we will not say the illness, but--the
death agony of the poor woman lasted. Bianchon, who came every day and
watched his patient with the devotion of a true friend, told Joseph
the truth on the first day of her seizure.
"At her age," he said, "and under the circumstances which have
happened to her, all we can hope to do is to make her death as little
painful as possible."
She herself felt so surely called of God that she asked the next day
for the religious help of old Abbe Loraux, who had been her confessor
for more than twenty-two years. As soon as she was alone with him, and
had poured her griefs into his heart, she said--as she had said to
Madame Hochon, and had repeated to herself again and again throughout
her life:--
"What have I done to displease God? Have I not loved Him with all my
soul? Have I wandered from the path of grace? What is my sin? Can I be
guilty of wrong when I know not what it is? Have I the time to repair
it?"
"No," said the old man, in a gentle voice. "Alas! your life seems to
have been pure and your soul spotless; but the eye of God, poor
afflicted creature, is keener than that of his ministers. I see the
truth too late; for you have misled even me."
Hearing these words from lips that had never spoken other than
peaceful and pleasant words to her, Agathe rose suddenly in her bed
and opened her eyes wide, with terror and distress.
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