CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH.

OUTCAST PARISHIONERS.

“Madame.” said Monsieur Laurentie; one morning, the eighth that I had been in the fever-smitten village, “you did not take a promenade yesterday.”

“Not yesterday, monsieur.”

“Nor the day before yesterday?” he continued.

“No, monsieur,” I answered; “I dare not leave Minima, I fear she is going to die.”

My voice failed me as I spoke to him.  I was sitting down for a few minutes on a low seat, between Minima’s bed and one where a little boy of six years of age lay.  Both were delirious.  He was the little son of Jean, our driver, and the sacristan of the church; and his father had brought him into the ward the evening of the day after Minima had been taken ill.  Jean had besought me with tears to be good to his child.  The two had engrossed nearly all my time and thoughts, and I was losing heart and hope every hour.

Monsieur Laurentie raised me gently from my low chair, and seated himself upon it, with a smile, as he looked up at me.

“Voila, madame,” he said, “I promise not to quit the chamber till you return.  My sister has a little commission for you to do.  Confide the mignonne to me, and make your promenade in peace.  It is necessary, madame; you must obey me.”

The commission for mademoiselle was to carry some food and medicine to a cottage lower down the valley; and Jean’s eldest son, Pierre, was appointed to be my guide.  Both the cure and his sister gave me a strict charge as to what we were to do; neither of us was upon any account to go near or enter the dwelling; but after the basket was deposited upon a flat stone, which Pierre was to point out to me, he was to ring a small hand-bell which he carried with him for that purpose.  Then we were to turn our backs and begin our retreat, before any person came out of the infected house.

I set out with Pierre, a solemn-looking boy of about twelve years of age, who cast upon me sidelong glances of silent scrutiny.  We passed down the village street, with its closely-packed houses forming a very nest for fever, until we reached the road by which I had first entered Ville-en-bois.  Now that I could see it by daylight, the valley was extremely narrow, and the hills on each side so high that, though the sun had risen nearly three hours ago, it had but just climbed above the brow of the eastern slope.  There was a luxurious and dank growth of trees, with a tangle of underwood and boggy soil beneath them.  A vapor was shining in rainbow colors against the brightening sky.  In the depth of the valley, but hidden by the thicket, ran a noisy stream—­too noisy to be any thing else than shallow.  There had been no frost since the sharp and keen wintry weather in December, and the heavy rains which had fallen since had flooded the stream, and made the lowlands soft and oozy with undrained moisture.  My guide and I trudged along in silence for almost a kilometre.