One afternoon, going homewards after a walk with Jeanne, she passed along the Rue de l’Annonciation and entered the church.  The child was complaining of feeling very tired.  Until the last day she had been unwilling to admit that the evening services exhausted her, so intense was the pleasure she derived from them; but her cheeks had grown waxy-pale, and the doctor advised that she should take long walks.

“Sit down here,” said her mother.  “It will rest you; we’ll only stay ten minutes.”

She herself walked towards some chairs a short way off, and knelt down.  She had placed Jeanne close to a pillar.  Workmen were busy at the other end of the nave, taking down the hangings and removing the flowers, the ceremonials attending the month of Mary having come to an end the evening before.  With her face buried in her hands Helene saw nothing and heard nothing; she was eagerly catechising her heart, asking whether she ought not to confess to Abbe Jouve what an awful life had come upon her.  He would advise her, perhaps restore her lost peace.  Still, within her there arose, out of her very anguish, a fierce flood of joy.  She hugged her sorrow, dreading lest the priest might succeed in finding a cure for it.  Ten minutes slipped away, then an hour.  She was overwhelmed by the strife raging within her heart.

At last she raised her head, her eyes glistening with tears, and saw Abbe Jouve gazing at her sorrowfully.  It was he who was directing the workmen.  Having recognized Jeanne, he had just come forward.

“Why, what is the matter, my child?” he asked of Helene, who hastened to rise to her feet and wipe away her tears.

She was at a loss what answer to give; she was afraid lest she should once more fall on her knees and burst into sobs.  He approached still nearer, and gently resumed: 

“I do not wish to cross-question you, but why do you not confide in me?  Confide in the priest and forget the friend.”

“Some other day,” she said brokenly, “some other day, I promise you.”

Jeanne meantime had at first been very good and patient, finding amusement in looking at the stained-glass windows, the statues over the great doorway, and the scenes of the journey to the Cross depicted in miniature bas-reliefs along the aisles.  By degrees, however, the cold air of the church had enveloped her as with a shroud; and she remained plunged in a weariness that even banished thought, a feeling of discomfort waking within her with the holy quiet and far-reaching echoes, which the least sound stirred in this sanctuary where she imagined she was going to die.  But a grievous sorrow rankled in her heart—­the flowers were being borne away.  The great clusters of roses were vanishing, and the altar seemed to become more and more bare and chill.  The marble looked icy-cold now that no wax-candle shone on it and there was no smoking incense.  The lace-robed Virgin moreover was being moved, and after suddenly tottering fell backward into the arms of two workmen.  At the sight Jeanne uttered a faint cry, stretched out her arms, and fell back rigid; the illness that had been threatening her for some days had at last fallen upon her.