Eutrope’s face was very grave, and he shook his head as he declared:—­ “Neither have I any faith in doctors.  Now if we had only thought of fetching a bone-setter—­such a man as Tit’Sebe of St. Felicien ...”  Every face was turned to him and the tears ceased flowing.

“Tit’Sebe!” exclaimed Maria.  “And you think he could help in a case like this?” Both Eutrope and Chapdelaine hastened to avow their trust in him.

“There is no doubt whatever that Tit’Sebe can make people well.  He was never through the schools, but he knows how to cure.  You heard of Nazaire Gaudreau who fell from the top of a barn and broke his back.  The doctors came to see him, and the best they could do was to give the Latin name for his hurt and say that he was going to die.  Then they went and fetched Tit’Sebe, and Tit’Sebe cured him.”  Every one of them knew the healer’s repute and hope sprang up again in their hearts.

“Tit’Sebe is a first-rate man, and a man who knows how to make sick people well.  Moreover he is not greedy for money.  You go and you fetch him, you pay him for his time, and he cures you.  It was he who put little Romeo Boilly on his legs again after being run over by a wagon loaded with planks.”

The sick woman had relapsed into stupor, and was moaning feebly with her eyes closed.

“I will go and get him if you like,” suggested Eutrope.

“But what will you do for a horse?” asked Maria.  “The doctor has Charles Eugene at Honfleur.”

Chapdelaine clenched his fist in wrath and swore through his teeth:—­ “The old rascal!”

Eutrope thought a moment before speaking.  “It makes no difference.  I will go just the same.  If I walk to Honfleur, I shall easily find someone there who will lend me a horse and sleigh—­Racicot, or perhaps old Neron.”

“It is thirty-five miles from here to St. Felicien and the roads are heavy.”

“I will go just the same.”

He, departed forthwith, thinking as he went at a jog-trot over the snow of the grateful look that Maria had given him.  The family made ready for the night, computing meanwhile these new distances ...  Seventy miles there and back ...  Roads deep in snow.  The lamp was left burning, and till morning the voice from the bed was never hushed.  Sometimes it was sharp with pain; sometimes it weakly strove for breath.  Two hours after daylight the doctor and the cure of St. Henri appeared together.

“It was impossible for me to come sooner,” the cure explained, “but I am here at last, and I picked up the doctor in the village.”  They sat at the bedside and talked in low tones.  The doctor made a fresh examination, but it was the cure who told the result of it.  “There is little one can say.  She does not seem any worse, but this is not an ordinary sickness.  It is best that I should confess her and give her absolution; then we shall both go away and be back again the day after to-morrow.”