Clergy -- Fiction; France -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; French fiction -- Translations into English
At eleven years of age she had the small-pox, and owed her life to the
care of Soeur Marthe. During the two months that their child was in
danger the Sauviats betrayed to the whole community the depth of their
tenderness. Sauviat no longer went about the country to sales; he stayed
in the shop, going upstairs and down to his daughter’s room, sitting up
with her every night in company with his wife. His silent anguish seemed
so great that no one dared to speak to him; his neighbors looked at
him with compassion, but they only asked news of Veronique from Soeur
Marthe. During the days when the child’s danger reached a crisis, the
neighbors and passers saw, for the first and only time in Sauviat’s
life, tears in his eyes and rolling down his hollow cheeks; he did
not wipe them, but stood for hours as if stupefied, not daring to go
upstairs to his daughter’s room, gazing before him and seeing nothing,
so oblivious of all things that any one might have robbed him.
Veronique was saved, but her beauty perished. Her face, once exquisitely
colored with a tint in which brown and rose were harmoniously mingled,
came out from the disease with a myriad of pits which thickened the
skin, the flesh beneath it being deeply indented. Even her forehead did
not escape the ravages of the scourge; it turned brown and looked as
though it were hammered, like metal. Nothing can be more discordant
than brick tones of the skin surrounded by golden hair; they destroy all
harmony. These fissures in the tissues, capriciously hollowed, injured
the purity of the profile and the delicacy of the lines of the face,
especially that of the nose, the Grecian form of which was lost, and
that of the chin, once as exquisitely rounded as a piece of white
porcelain. The disease left nothing unharmed except the parts it was
unable to reach,--the eyes and the teeth. She did not, however, lose the
elegance and beauty of her shape,--neither the fulness of its lines nor
the grace and suppleness of her waist. At fifteen Veronique was still a
fine girl, and to the great consolation of her father and mother, a good
and pious girl, busy, industrious, and domestic.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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