Maria Chapdelaine: A Tale of the Lake St. John Country

by Louis Hémon

  CHAPTER XIV

  INTO THE DEEP SILENCE

  There came an evening in April when Madame Chapdelaine would nottake her place at the supper table with the others.

  "There are pains through my body and I have no appetite," she said,"I must have strained myself to-day lifting a bag of flour when Iwas making bread. Now something catches me in the back, and I am nothungry."

  No one answered her. Those living sheltered lives take quick alarmwhen the mechanism of one of their number goes wrong, but people whowrestle with the earth for a living feel little surprise if theirlabours are too much for them now and then, and the body gives wayin some fibre.

  While father and children supped, Madame Chapdelaine sat very stillin her chair beside the stove. She drew her breath hard, and herbroad face was working.

  "I am going to bed," she said presently. "A good night's sleep, andto-morrow morning I shall be all right again; have no doubt of that.You will see to the baking, Maria."

  And indeed in the morning she was up at her usual hour, but when shehad made the batter for the pancakes pain overcame her, and she hadto lie down again. She stood for a minute beside the bed, with bothhands pressed against her back, and made certain that the dailytasks would be attended to.

  "You will give the men their food, Maria, and your father will lendyou a hand at milking the cows if you wish it. I am not good foranything this morning."

  "It will be all right, mother; it will be all right. Take itquietly; we shall have no trouble."

  For two days she kept her bed, with a watchful eye over everything,directing all the household affairs.

  "Don't be in the least anxious," her husband urged again and again."There is hardly anything to be done in the house beyond thecooking, and Maria is quite fit to look after that--everything elsetoo, by thunder! She is not a little child any longer, and is ascapable as yourself. Lie there quietly, without stirring; and beeasy in your mind, instead of tossing about all the time under theblankets and making yourself worse...."

  On the third day she gave up thinking about the cares of the houseand began to bemoan herself.

  "Oh my God!" she wailed. "I have pains all over my body, and myhead is burning. I think that I am going to die."

  Her husband tried to cheer her with his Clumsy pleasantries. "Youare going to die when the good God wills it, and according to my wayof thinking that will not be for a while yet. What would He be doingwith you? Heaven is all cluttered with old women, and down here wehave only the one, and she is able to make herself a bit useful,every now and then ..." But he was beginning to feel anxious, andtook counsel with his daughter.

  "I could put the horse in and go as far as La Pipe," he suggested."It may be that they have some medicine for this sickness at thestore; or I might talk things over with the cure, and he would tellme what to do."

  Before they had made up their minds night had fallen, and Tit'B?,who had been at Eutrope Gagnon's helping him to saw his firewood,came back bringing Eutrope along with him.

  "Eutrope has a remedy," said he. They all gathered round Eutrope, whotook a little tin box from his pocket and opened it deliberately.

  "This is what I have," he announced rather dubiously. "They arelittle pills. When my brother was bad with his kidneys three yearsago he saw an advertisement in a paper about these pills, and itsaid they were the proper thing, so he sent the money for a box, andhe declares it is a good medicine. Of course his trouble did notleave him at once, but he says that this did him good. It comes fromthe States ..."

  Without word said they looked at the little gray pills rolling abouton the bottom of the box ... A remedy compounded by some man in adistant land famed for his wisdom ... And they felt the awe of thesavage for his broth of herbs simmered on a night of the full moonbeneath the medicineman's incantations.

  Maria asked doubtfully: "Is it certain that her trouble has only todo with the kidneys?"

  "I thought it was just that, from what Tit'B? told me."

  A motion of Chapdelaine's hand eked out his words.--"She strainedherself lifting a bag of flour, as she says; and now she has painseverywhere. How can we tell ..."

  "The newspaper that spoke of this medicine," Eutrope Gagnon went on,"put it that whenever a person falls sick and is in pain it isalways the kidneys; and for trouble in the kidneys these pills hereare first-rate. That is what the paper said, and my brother aswell."

  "Even if they are not for this very sickness," said Tit'B?deferentially, "they are a remedy all the same."

  "She suffers, that is one thing certain; we cannot let her go onlike this."

  They drew near the bed where the sick woman was moaning andbreathing heavily, attempting from time to time to make slightmovements which were followed by sharper outcries.

  "Eutrope has brought you a cure, Laura."

  "I have no faith in your cures," she groaned out. But yet she wasready to look at the little gray pills ever running round in the tinbox as if they were alive.

  "My brother took some of these three years ago when he had thekidney trouble so badly that he was hardly able to work at all, andhe says that they cured him. It is a fine remedy, MadameChapdelaine, there is not a question of it!" His former doubts hadvanished in speech and he felt wholly confident. "This is going tocure you, Madame Chapdelaine, as surely as the good God is above us.It is a medicine of the very first class; my brother had it sentexpressly from the States. You may be sure that you would never finda medicine like this in the store at La Pipe."

  "It cannot make her worse?" Maria asked, some doubt lingering. "Itis not a poison, or anything of that sort?"

  With one voice, in an indignant tone, the three men protested: "Doharm? Tiny pills no bigger than that!"

  "My brother took nearly a box of them, and according to his accountit was only good they did him."

  When Eutrope departed he left the box of pills; the sick woman hadnot yet agreed to try them, but her objections grew weaker withtheir urging. In the middle of the night she took a couple, and twomore in the morning, and as the hours passed they all waited inconfidence for the virtue of the medicine to declare itself. Buttoward midday they had to bow to the facts: she was no easier anddid not cease her moaning. By evening the box was empty, and at thefalling of the night her groans were filling the household withanguished distress, all the keener as they had no medicine now inwhich to place their trust.

  Maria was up several times in the night, aroused by her mother'smore piercing cries; she always found her lying motionless on herside, and this position seemed to increase the suffering and thestiffness, so that her groans were pitiful to hear.

  "What ails you, mother? Are you not feeling any better?"

  "Ah God, how I suffer! How I do suffer! I cannot stir myself, notthe least bit, and even so the pain is as bad as ever. Give me somecold water, Maria; I have the most terrible thirst."

  Several times Maria gave her mother water, but at last she becameafraid. "Maybe it is not good for you to drink so much. Try to bearthe thirst for a little."

  "But I cannot bear it, I tell you-the thirst and the pain allthrough my body, and my head that bums like fire ... My God! It iscertain that I am to die."

  A little before daylight they both fell asleep; but soon Maria wasawakened by her father who laid his hand upon her shoulder andwhispered:--"I am going to harness the horse to go to Mistook forthe doctor, and on the way through La Pipe I shall also speak to thecure. It is heart-breaking to hear her moan like this."

  Her eyes open in the ghostly dawn, Maria gave ear to the sounds ofhis departure: the banging of the stable door against the wall; thehorse's hoofs thudding on the wood of the alley; muffled commands toCharles Eugene: "Hold up, there! Back ... Back up! Whoa!" Then thetinkle of the sleigh-bells. In the silence that followed, the sickwoman groaned two or three times in her sleep; Maria watched the wanlight stealing into the house and thought of her father's journey,trying to reckon up the distances he must travel.

  From their house to Honfleur, eight
miles; from Honfleur to La Pipe,six. There her father would speak with the cure, and then pursue hisway to Mistook. She corrected herself, and for the ancient Indianname that the people of the country use, gave it the official onebestowed in baptism by the church--St. Coeur de Marie. From La Pipeto St. Coeur de Marie, eight miles ... --Eight and six and then eight.Growing confused, she said to herself--"Anyway it is far, and theroads will be heavy."

  Again she felt affrighted at their loneliness, which once hardlygave her a thought. All was well enough when people were in healthand merry, and one had no need of help; but with trouble or sicknessthe woods around seemed to shut them cruelly away from allsuccour--the woods where horses sink to the chest in snow, wherestorms smother one in mid-April.

  The mother strove to turn in her sleep, waked with a cry of anguish,and the continual moaning began anew. Maria rose and sat by the bed,thinking of the long day just beginning in which she would haveneither help nor counsel.

  All the dragging hours were burdened with lamentable sound; thegroaning from the bed where the sick woman lay never ceased, andhaunted the narrow wooden dwelling. Now and then some householdnoise broke in upon it: the clashing of plates, the clang of theopened stove door, the sound of feet on the planking, Tit'B?stealing into the house, clumsy and anxious, to ask for news.

  "Is she no better?"

  Maria answered by a movement of the head. They both stood gazing fora time at the motionless figure under the woollen blankets, givingear to the sounds of distress; then Tit'B? departed to his smalloutdoor duties. When Maria had put the house in order she took upher patient watching, and the sick woman's agonizing wails seemed toreproach her.

  From hour to hour she kept reckoning the times and the distances."My father should not be far from St. Coeur de Marie ... If thedoctor is there they will rest the horse for a couple of hours andcome back together. But the roads must be very bad; at this time, inthe spring, they are sometimes hardly passable."

  And then a little later:--"They should have left; perhaps ingoing through La Pipe they will stop to speak to the cure; perhapsagain he may have started as soon as he heard, without waiting forthem. In that case he might be here at any moment."

  But the fall of night brought no one, and it was only about seveno'clock that the sound of sleigh-bells was heard, and her father andthe doctor arrived. The latter came into the house alone, put hisbag on the table and began to pull off his overcoat, grumbling allthe while.

  "With the roads in this condition," said he, "it is no small affairto get about and visit the sick. And as for you folk, you seem tohave hidden yourselves as far in the woods as you could. GreatHeavens! You might very well all die without a soul coming to helpyou."

  After warming himself for a little while at the stove he approachedthe bedside. "Well, good mother, so we have taken the notion to besick, just like people who have money to spend on such things!"

  But after a brief examination he ceased to jest, saying:--"Shereally is sick, I do believe."

  It was with no affectation that he spoke in the fashion of thepeasantry; his grandfather and his father were tillers of the soil,and he had gone straight from the farm to study medicine in Quebec,amongst other young fellows for the most part like himself--grandsons,if not sons of farmers--who had all clung to the plain country mannerand the deliberate speech of their fathers. He was tall and heavilybuilt, with a grizzled moustache, and his large face wore theslightly aggrieved expression of one whose native cheerfulness isbeing continually dashed through listening to the tale of others'ills for which he is bound to show a decent sympathy.

  Chapdelaine came in when he had unharnessed and fed the horse. Heand his children sat at a little distance while the doctor was goingthrough his programme.

  Every one of them was thinking:--"Presently we shall know what isthe matter, and the doctor will give her the right medicines." Butwhen the examination was ended, instead of turning to the bottles inhis bag, he seemed uncertain and began to ask interminablequestions. How had it happened, and where, particularly, did shefeel pain ... Had she ever before suffered from the same trouble ...The answers did not seem to enlighten him very much; then heturned to the sick woman herself, only to receive confusedstatements and complaints.

  "If it is just a wrench that she has given herself," at length heannounced, "she will get well without any meddling; there is nothingfor her to do but to stay quietly in bed. But if there is someinjury within, to the kidneys or another organ, it may be a graveaffair." He was conscious that his state of doubt was disappointingto the Chapdelaines, and was anxious to restore his medicalreputation.

  "Internal lesions are serious things, and often one cannot detectthem. The wisest man in the world could tell you no more than I. Weshall have to wait ... But perhaps it is not that we have to dealwith." After some further investigation he shook his head. "Ofcourse I can give something that will keep her from suffering likethis."

  The leather bag now disclosed its wonderworking phials; fifteendrops of a yellowish drug were diluted with two fingers of water,and the sick woman, lifted up in bed, managed to swallow this withsharp cries of pain. Then there was apparently nothing more to bedone; the men lit their pipes, and the doctor, with his feet againstthe stove, held forth as to his professional labours and the cureshe had wrought.

  "Illnesses like these," said he, "where one cannot discoverprecisely what is the matter, are more baffling to a doctor than thegravest disorders--like pneumonia now, or even typhoid fever whichcarry off three-quarters of the people hereabouts who do not die ofold age. Well, typhoid and pneumonia, I cure these every month inthe year. You know Viateur Tremblay, the postmaster at St. Henri ..."

  He seemed a little hurt that Madame Chapdelaine should be the victimof an obscure malady, hard to diagnose, and had not been taken downwith one of the two complaints he was accustomed to treat with suchsuccess, and he gave an account by chapter and verse of the mannerin which he had cured the postmaster of St. Henri. From that theypassed on to the country news--news carried by word of mouth fromhouse to house around Lake St. John, and greeted a thousandfold moreeagerly than tidings of wars and famines, since the gossipers alwaysmanage to connect it with friend or relative in a country where allties of kinship, near or far, are borne scrupulously in mind.

  Madame Chapdelaine ceased moaning and seemed to be asleep. Thedoctor, considering that he had done all that was expected of him,for the evening at least, knocked the ashes out of his pipe and roseto go.

  "I shall sleep at Honfleur," said he, "I suppose your horse is fitto take me so far? There is no need for you to come, I know theroad. I shall stay with Ephrem, Surprenant, and come back in themorning."

  Chapdelaine was a little slow to make reply, recalling the stiffday's work his old beast had already accomplished, but at the end hewent out to harness Charles Eugene once more. In a few minutes thedoctor was on the road, leaving the family to themselves as usual.

  A great stillness reigned in the house. The comfortable thought waswith them all:--"Anyway the medicine he has given her is a goodone; she groans no longer." But scarce an hour had gone by beforethe sick woman ceased to feel the effect of the too feeble drug,became conscious again, tried to turn herself in bed and screamedout with pain. They were all up at once and crowding about her intheir concern; she opened her eyes, and after groaning in anagonized way began to weep unrestrainedly.

  "O Samuel, I am dying, there can be no doubt of it."

  "No! No! You must not think that."

  "Yes, I know that I am dying. I feel it. The doctor is only an oldfool, and he cannot tell what to do. He is not even able to say whatthe trouble is, and the medicine he gave me is useless; it has doneme no good. I tell you I am dying."

  The failing words were hindered with her groaning, and tears courseddown the heavy cheeks. Husband and children looked at her, struck tothe very earth with grief. The footstep of death was sounding in thehouse. They knew themselves cut off from all the world, helpless,remote, without even a horse to bring
them succour. The crueltreachery of it all held them speechless and transfixed, withstreaming eyes.

  In their midst appeared Eutrope Gagnon.

  "And I who was thinking to find her almost well. This doctor, now ..."

  Chapdelaine broke out, quite beside himself:--"This doctor is nota bit of use, and I shall tell him so plainly, myself. He came here,he gave her a drop of some miserable stuff worth nothing at all inthe bottom of a cup, and he is off to sleep in the village as if hispay was earned! Not a thing has he done but tire out my horse, buthe shall not have a copper from me, not a single copper..."

  Eutrope's face was very grave, and he shook his head as hedeclared:--"Neither have I any faith in doctors. Now if we had onlythought of fetching a bone-setter--such a man as Tit'Sebe ofSt. Felicien ..." Every face was turned to him and the tears ceasedflowing.

  "Tit'Sebe!" exclaimed Maria. "And you think he could help in a caselike this?" Both Eutrope and Chapdelaine hastened to avow theirtrust in him.

  "There is no doubt whatever that Tit'Sebe can make people well. Hewas never through the schools, but he knows how to cure. You heardof Nazaire Gaudreau who fell from the top of a barn and broke hisback. The doctors came to see him, and the best they could do was togive the Latin name for his hurt and say that he was going to die.Then they went and fetched Tit'Sebe, and Tit'Sebe cured him." Everyone of them knew the healer's repute and hope sprang up again intheir hearts.

  "Tit'Sebe is a first-rate man, and a man who knows how to make sickpeople well. Moreover he is not greedy for money. You go and youfetch him, you pay him for his time, and he cures you. It was he whoput little Romeo Boilly on his legs again after being run over by awagon loaded with planks."

  The sick woman had relapsed into stupor, and was moaning feebly withher eyes closed.

  "I will go and get him if you like," suggested Eutrope.

  "But what will you do for a horse?" asked Maria. "The doctor hasCharles Eugene at Honfleur."

  Chapdelaine clenched his fist in wrath and swore through histeeth:--"The old rascal!"

  Eutrope thought a moment before speaking. "It makes no difference. Iwill go just the same. If I walk to Honfleur, I shall easily findsomeone there who will lend me a horse and sleigh--Racicot, orperhaps old Neron."

  "It is thirty-five miles from here to St. Felicien and the roadsare heavy."

  "I will go just the same."

  He, departed forthwith, thinking as he went at a jog-trot over thesnow of the grateful look that Maria had given him. The family madeready for the night, computing meanwhile these new distances ...Seventy miles there and back ... Roads deep in snow. The lamp wasleft burning, and till morning the voice from the bed was neverhushed. Sometimes it was sharp with pain; sometimes it weakly strovefor breath. Two hours after daylight the doctor and the cure of St.Henri appeared together.

  "It was impossible for me to come sooner," the cure explained, "butI am here at last, and I picked up the doctor in the village." Theysat at the bedside and talked in low tones. The doctor made a freshexamination, but it was the cure who told the result of it. "Thereis little one can say. She does not seem any worse, but this is notan ordinary sickness. It is best that I should confess her and giveher absolution; then we shall both go away and be back again the dayafter to-morrow."

  He returned to the bed, and the others went over and sat by thewindow. For some, minutes the two voices were heard in question andresponse; the one feeble and broken by suffering; the otherconfident, grave, scarcely lowered for the solemn interrogation.After some inaudible words a hand was raised in a gesture whichinstantly bowed the heads of all those in the house. The priestrose.

  Before departing the doctor gave Maria a little bottle withinstructions. "Only if she should suffer greatly, so that she criesout, and never more than fifteen drops at a time. And do not let herhave any cold water to drink."

  She saw them to the door, the bottle in her hand. Before gettinginto the sleigh the cure took Maria aside and spoke a few words toher. "Doctors do what they can," said he in a simple unaffected way,"but only God Himself has knowledge of disease. Pray with all yourheart, and I shall say a mass for her to-morrow--a high mass withmusic, you understand."

  All day long Maria strove to stay the hidden advances of thedisorder with her prayers, and every time that she returned to thebedside it was with a half hope that a miracle had been wrought,that the sick woman would cease from her groaning, sleep for a fewhours and awake restored to health. It was not so to be; the moaningceased not, but toward evening it died away to sighing, continualand profound--nature's protest against a burden too heavy to beborne, or the slow inroad of death-dealing poison.

  About midnight came Eutrope Gagnon, bringing Tit'Sebe thebone-setter. He was a little, thin, sad-faced man with very kindeyes. As always when called to a sick-bed, he wore his clothes ofceremony, of dark wellworn cloth, which he bore with the awkwardnessof the peasant in Sunday attire. But the strong brown hands beyondthe thread-bare sleeves moved in a way to inspire confidence. Theypassed over the limbs and body of Madame Chapdelaine with the mostdelicate care, nor did they draw from her a single cry of pain;thereafter he sat for a long time motionless beside the couch,looking at her as though awaiting guidance from a source beyondhimself. But when at last he broke the silence it was to say: "Haveyou sent for the cure? ... He has been here. And will he return?To-morrow; that is well."

  After another pause he made his frank avowal.--"There is nothing Ican do for her. Something has gone wrong within, about which I knownothing; were there broken bones I could have healed them. I shouldonly have had to feel them with my hands, and then the good Godwould have told me what to do and I should have cured her. But inthis sickness of hers I have no skill. I might indeed put a blisteron her back, and perhaps that would draw away-the blood and relieveher for a time. Or I could give her a draught made from beaverkidneys; it is useful when the kidneys are affected, as is wellknown. But I think that neither the blister nor the draught wouldwork a cure."

  His speech was so honest and straightforward that he made them oneand all feel what manner of thing was a disorder of the humanframe--the strangeness and the terror of what is passing behind theclosed door, which those without can only fight clumsily as theygrope in dark uncertainty.

  "She will die if that be God's pleasure."

  Maria broke into quiet tears; her father, not yet understanding, satwith his mouth half-open, and neither moved nor spoke. Thebone-setter, this sentence given, bowed his head and held hispitiful eyes for long upon the sick woman. The browned hands thatnow availed him not lay upon his knees; leaning forward a little,his back bent, the gentle sad spirit seemed in silent communion withits maker--"Thou hast bestowed upon me the gift of healing bonesthat are broken, and I have healed them; but Thou hast denied mepower over such ills as these; so must I let this poor woman die."

  For the first time now the deep marks of illness upon the mother'sface appeared to husband and children as more than the passingtraces of suffering, as imprints from the hand of death. Thehard-drawn breath rattling in her throat no longer betokenedconscious pain, but was the last blind remonstrance of the body rentby nearing dissolution.

  "You do not think she will die before the cure comes back?" Mariaasked.

  Tit'Sebe's head and hand showed that he was helpless to answer. "Icannot tell ... If your horse is able you would do well to seekhim with the daylight."

  Their eyes searched the window, as yet only a square of darkness,and then returned to her who lay upon the bed ... But five daysago a hearty, high-spirited woman, in full health of mind and body... It could not be that she was to die so soon as that. ... Butknowing now the sad inevitableness, every glance found a subtlechange, some fresh token that this bed-ridden woman groaning in herblindness was no more the wife and mother they had known so long.

  Half an hour went by; after casting his eyes toward the windowChapdelaine arose hurriedly, saying.--"I am going to put thehorse in."

  Tit'Sebe nodded. "That is well; yo
u had better harness; it is nearday."

  "Yes. I am going to put the horse in," Chapdelaine repeated. But atthe moment of his departure it swept over him suddenly that in goingto bring the Blessed Sacrament he would be upon a solemn and a finalerrand, significant of death. The thought held him still irresolute."I am going to put the horse in." Shifting from foot to foot, hegave a last look at his wife and at length went out.

  Not long after the coming of day the wind rose, and soon wassounding hoarsely about the house. "It is from the nor'west; therewill be a blow," said Tit'Sebe.

  Maria looked toward the window and sighed. "Only two days ago snowfell, and now it will be raised and drift. The roads were heavyenough before; father and the cure are going to have trouble gettingthrough."

  But the bone-setter shook his head. "They may have a littledifficulty on the road, but they will get here all the same. Apriest who brings the Blessed Sacrament has more than the strengthof a man." His mild eyes shone with the faith that knows no bounds.

  "Yes, power beyond the strength of a man has a priest bearing theBlessed Sacrament. It was three years ago that they summoned me tocare for a sick man on the lower Mistassini; at once I saw that Icould do nothing for him, and I bade them go fetch a priest. It wasnight-time and there was not a man in the house, the father himselfbeing sick and his boys quite young. And so at the last it was Ithat went. On the way back we had to cross the river; the ice hadjust gone out--it was in the spring--and as yet not a boat had beenput into the water. We found a great heavy tub that had been lyingin the sand all winter, and when we tried to run her down to thewater she was buried so deep in the sand and was so heavy that thefour of us could not so much as make her budge. Simon Martel wasthere, big Lalancette of St. Methode, a third I cannot call to mind,and myself; and we four, hauling and shoving to break our hearts aswe thought of this poor fellow on the other side of the river whowas in the way of dying like a heathen, could not stir that boat asingle inch. Well, the cure came forward; he laid his hand on thegunwale--just laid his hand on the gunwale, like that--'Give onemore shove,' said he; and the boat seemed to start of herself andslipped down to the water as though she were alive. The sick manreceived the sacrament all right, and died like a Christian just asday was breaking. Yes, a priest has strength beyond the strength ofmen."

  Maria was still sighing, but her heart discovered a melancholy peacein the certainty and nearness of death. This unknown disorder, thedread of what might be coming, these were dark and terrifyingphantoms against which one strove blindly, uncomprehendingly. Butwhen one was face to face with death itself all to be done wasplain--ordained these many centuries by laws beyond dispute. By dayor night, from far or near, the cure comes bearing the HolySacrament-across angry rivers in the spring, over the treacherousice, along roads choked with snow, fighting the bitter north-westwind; aided by miracles, he never fails; he fulfils his sacredoffice, and thenceforward there is room for neither doubt nor fear.Death is but a glorious preferment, a door that opens to the joysunspeakable of the elect.

  The wind had risen and was shaking the Partitions as window-panesrattle in a sudden gust. The nor'wester came howling over the darktree-tops, fell upon the clearing about the little woodenbuildings--house, stable, barn--in' squalls and-wicked whirlwindsthat sought to lift the roof and smote the walls like abattering-ram, before sweeping onward to the forest in a baffledfury. The house trembled from base to chimneytop, and swayed on itsfoundation in such a fashion that the inmates, feeling theonslaught, hearing the roar and shriek of the foe, were almost assensible of the terrors of the storm as though they were exposed toit; lacking the consciousness of safe retreat that belongs to thosewho are sheltered by strong walls of stone.

  Tit'Sebe cast his eyes about. "A good house you have here; tightlymade and warm. Your father and the boys built it, did they not?Moreover, you must have a good bit of land cleared by this time ..."

  So loud was the wind that they did not hear the sound ofsleigh-bells, and suddenly the door flew open against the wall andthe cure of St. Henri entered, bearing the Host in his raised hands.Maria and Tit'Sebe fell upon their knees; Tit'B? ran to shut thedoor, then also knelt. The priest put off the heavy fur coat and thecap white with snow drawn down to his eyes, and instantly approachedthe sick-bed as heaven's envoy bringing pardon and peace.

  Ah! the assurance, the comfort of the divine promise which dispelsthe awful mists of death! While the priest performed the sacredrites, and his low words mingled with the sighs of the dying woman,Samuel Chapdelaine and his children were praying with bended heads;in some sort consoled, released from anxiousness and doubt,confident that a sure pact was then concluding with the Almighty forthe blue skies of Paradise spangled with stars of gold as a rightfulheritage.

  Afterwards the cure warmed himself by the stove; then they prayedtogether for a time, kneeling by the bed.

  Toward four o'clock the wind leaped to the south-east, and the stormended swiftly as a broken wave sinks backward from the shore; in thestrange deep silence after the tumult the mother sighed, sighed onceagain, and died.