lise Rouquet,
now turned them upon a man who occupied a corner seat in the compartment
on her left, that in which Brother Isidore was lying. She had noticed
this man several times already. Poorly clad in an old black frock-coat,
he looked still young, although his sparse beard was already turning
grey; and, short and emaciated, he seemed to experience great suffering,
his fleshless, livid face being covered with sweat. However, he remained
motionless, ensconced in his corner, speaking to nobody, but staring
straight before him with dilated eyes. And all at once Marie noticed that
his eyelids were falling, and that he was fainting away.

She thereupon drew Sister's Hyacinthe's attention to him: "Look, Sister!
One would think that that gentleman is dangerously ill."

"Which one, my dear child?"

"That one, over there, with his head thrown back."

General excitement followed, all the healthy pilgrims rose up to look,
and it occurred to Madame de Jonquiere to call to Marthe, Brother
Isidore's sister, and tell her to tap the man's hands.

"Question him," she added; "ask what ails him."

Marthe drew near, shook the man, and questioned him.

But instead of an answer only a rattle came from his throat, and his eyes
remained closed.

Then a frightened voice was heard saying, "I think he is going to die."

The dread increased, words flew about, advice was tendered from one to
the other end of the carriage. Nobody knew the man. He had certainly not
obtained _hospitalisation_, for no white card was hanging from his neck.
Somebody related, however, that he had seen him arrive, dragging himself
along, but three minutes or so before the train started; and that he had
remained quite motionless, scarce breathing, ever since he had flung
himself with an air of intense weariness into that corner, where he was
now apparently dying. His ticket was at last seen protruding from under
the band of an old silk hat which was hung from a peg near him.

"Ah, he is breathing again now!" Sister Hyacinthe suddenly exclaimed.
"Ask him his name."

However, on being again questioned by Marthe, the man merely gave vent to
a low plaint, an exclamation scarcely articulated, "Oh, how I suffer!"

And thenceforward that was the only answer that could be obtained from
him. With reference to everything that they wished to know, who he was,
whence he came, what his illness was, what could be done for him, he gave
no information, but still and ever co