Soon I heard the rattle of sabres on the road, and
I took a candle to show a light to the men who were
returning; and they soon appeared, carrying that inert,
soft, long, sinister object which a human body becomes
when life no longer sustains it.
They put the wounded man on the mattress that had
been prepared for him, and I saw at the first glance
that he was dying. He had the death rattle and
was spitting up blood, which ran out of the corners
of his mouth at every gasp. The man was covered
with blood! His cheeks, his beard, his hair,
his neck and his clothes seemed to have been soaked,
to have been dipped in a red tub; and that blood stuck
to him, and had become a dull color which was horrible
to look at.
The wounded man, wrapped up in a large shepherd’s
cloak, occasionally opened his dull, vacant eyes,
which seemed stupid with astonishment, like those
of animals wounded by a sportsman, which fall at his
feet, more than half dead already, stupefied with
terror and surprise.
The cure exclaimed: “Ah, it is old Placide,
the shepherd from Les Moulins. He is deaf, poor
man, and heard nothing. Ah! Oh, God! they
have killed the unhappy man!” The sister had
opened his blouse and shirt, and was looking at a
little blue hole in his chest, which was not bleeding
any more. “There is nothing to be done,”
she said.
The shepherd was gasping terribly and bringing up
blood with every last breath, and in his throat, to
the very depth of his lungs, they could hear an ominous
and continued gurgling. The cure, standing in
front of him, raised his right hand, made the sign
of the cross, and in a slow and solemn voice pronounced
the Latin words which purify men’s souls, but
before they were finished, the old man’s body
trembled violently, as if something had given way
inside him, and he ceased to breathe. He was
dead.
When I turned round, I saw a sight which was even
more horrible than the death struggle of this unfortunate
man; the three old women were standing up huddled
close together, hideous, and grimacing with fear and
horror. I went up to them, and they began to
utter shrill screams, while La Jean-Jean, whose burned
leg could no longer support her, fell to the ground
at full length.
Sister Saint-Benedict left the dead man, ran up to
her infirm old women, and without a word or a look
for me, wrapped their shawls round them, gave them
their crutches, pushed them to the door, made them
go out, and disappeared with them into the dark night.
I saw that I could not even let a hussar accompany
them, for the mere rattle of a sword would have sent
them mad with fear.
The cure was still looking at the dead man; but at
last he turned round to me and said:
“Oh! What a horrible thing!”
Chateau de
SOLLES,
July 30, 1883.
My Dear Lucy:
