He came, after a long, long suspense, and opened the door, looking out as if to make sure that I was still at my post.  I sprang to my feet, and was running forward, when he beckoned me to remain where I was.  He came across to the middle of the court, but no nearer; and he spoke to me at that distance, in his clear, deliberate, penetrating voice.

“My child,” he said, “monsieur is ill! attacked, I am afraid, by the fever.  He is not delirious at present, and we have been talking together of many things.  But the fever has taken hold upon him, I think.  I shall remain with him all the day.  You must bring us what we have need of, and leave it on the stone there, as it used to be.”

“But cannot he be removed at once?” I asked.

“My dear,” he answered, “what can I do?  The village is free from sickness now; how can I run the risk of carrying the fever there again?  It is too far to send monsieur to Noireau.  If he is ill of it, it is best for us all that he should remain here.  I will not abandon him; no, no.  Obey me, my child, and leave him to me and to God.  Cannot you confide in me yet?”

“Yes,” I said, weeping, “I trust you with all my heart.”

“Go, then, and do what I bid you,” he replied.  “Tell my sister and Jean, tell all my people, that no one must intrude upon me, no one must come nearer this house than the appointed place.  Monsieur le Vicaire must remain in Ville-en-bois, and officiate for me, as though I were pursuing my journey to England.  You must think of me as one absent, yet close at hand:  that is the difference.  I am here, in the path of my duty.  Go, and fulfil yours.”

“Ought you not to let me share your work and your danger?” I ventured to ask.

“If there be any need, you shall share both,” he answered, in a tranquil tone, “though your life should be the penalty.  Life is nothing in comparison with duty.  When it is thy duty, my daughter, to be beside thy husband, I will call thee without fail.”

Slowly I retraced my steps to the village.  The news had already spread, from Pierre—­for no one else knew it—­that the Englishman, who had been turned away from their doors the day before, had spent the night in the infected dwelling.  A group of weavers, of farmers, of women from their household work, stopped me as I entered the street.  I delivered to them their cure’s message, and they received it with sobs and cries, as though it bore in it the prediction of a great calamity.  They followed me up the street to the presbytery, and crowded the little court in front of it.

When mademoiselle had collected the things Monsieur Laurentie had sent me for—­a mattress, a chair, food, and medicine—­every person in the crowd wished to carry some small portion of them.  We returned in a troop to the factory, and stood beyond the stone, a group of sorrowful, almost despairing people.  In a few minutes we saw the cure open the door, close it behind him, and stand before the proscribed dwelling.  His voice came across the space between us and him in distinct and cheerful tones.