ny one who knew her history.

The three women had not yet uttered a single word; they dared not speak,
even in a low voice. This deep silence, this deep grief, this profound
oblivion in which everything had disappeared except one thing, produced
upon them the effect of the grand altar at Christmas or Easter. They
remained silent, they meditated, they were ready to kneel. It seemed to
them that they were ready to enter a church on the day of Tenebrae.

At length Gervaise, the most curious of the three, and consequently the
least sensitive, tried to make the recluse speak:

"Sister! Sister Gudule!"

She repeated this call three times, raising her voice each time. The
recluse did not move; not a word, not a glance, not a sigh, not a sign
of life.

Oudarde, in her turn, in a sweeter, more caressing voice,--"Sister!"
said she, "Sister Sainte-Gudule!"

The same silence; the same immobility.

"A singular woman!" exclaimed Gervaise, "and one not to be moved by a
catapult!"

"Perchance she is deaf," said Oudarde.

"Perhaps she is blind," added Gervaise.

"Dead, perchance," returned Mahiette.

It is certain that if the soul had not already quitted this inert,
sluggish, lethargic body, it had at least retreated and concealed itself
in depths whither the perceptions of the exterior organs no longer
penetrated.

"Then we must leave the cake on the window," said Oudarde; "some scamp
will take it. What shall we do to rouse her?"

Eustache, who, up to that moment had been diverted by a little carriage
drawn by a large dog, which had just passed, suddenly perceived that his
three conductresses were gazing at something through the window, and,
curiosity taking possession of him in his turn, he climbed upon a stone
post, elevated himself on tiptoe, and applied his fat, red face to the
opening, shouting, "Mother, let me see too!"

At the sound of this clear, fresh, ringing child's voice, the recluse
trembled; she turned her head with the sharp, abrupt movement of a steel
spring, her long, fleshless hands cast aside the hair from her brow,
and she fixed upon the child, bitter, astonished, desperate eyes. This
glance was but a lightning flash.

"Oh my God!" she suddenly exclaimed, hiding her head on her knees, and
it seemed as though her hoarse voice tore her chest as it passed from
it, "do not show me those of others!"

"Good day, madam," said the child, gravely.

Nevertheless, this shock had, so to speak, awakened the