Hélène, meanwhile, had risen from her knees. She stepped along by the side of Juliette among the crowd which was making its way out with difficulty. Her heart was full of tenderness, she felt languid and enervated, and her soul no longer rebelled at the other being so near. At one moment their bare hands came in contact and they smiled. They were almost stifling in the throng, and Hélène would fain have had Juliette go first. All their old friendship seemed to blossom forth once more. “Is it understood that we can rely on you for to-morrow evening?” asked Madame Deberle. Hélène no longer had the will to decline. She would see whether it were possible when she reached the street. It finished by their being the last to leave. Pauline and Jeanne already stood on the opposite pavement awaiting them. But a tearful voice brought them to a halt. “Ah, my good lady, what a time it is since I had the happiness of seeing you!” It was Mother Fétu, who was soliciting alms at the church door. Barring Hélène’s way, as though she had lain in wait for her, she went on: “Oh, I have been so very ill always here, in the stomach, you know. Just now I feel as if a hammer were pounding away inside me; and I have nothing at all, my good lady. I didn’t dare to send you word about it—May the gracious God repay you!” Hélène had slipped a piece of money into her hand, and promised to think about her. “Hello!” exclaimed Madame Deberle, who had remained standing within the porch, “there’s some one talking with Pauline and Jeanne. Why, it is Henri.” “Yes, yes” Mother Fétu hastened to add as she turned her ferret-like eyes on the ladies, “it is the good doctor. I have seen him there all through the service; he has never budged from the pavement; he has been waiting for you, no doubt. Ah! he’s a saint of a man! I swear that to be the truth in the face of God who hears us. Yes, I know you, madame; he is a husband who deserves to be happy. May Heaven hearken to your prayers, may every blessing fall on you! In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!” Amidst the myriad furrows of her face, which was wrinkled like a withered apple, her little eyes kept gleaming in malicious unrest, darting a glance now on Juliette, now on Hélène, so that it was impossible to say with any certainty whom she was addressing while speaking of “the good doctor.” She followed them, muttering on without a stop, mingling whimpering entreaty with devout outbursts.