This is perhaps the ebb-tide of Madelon's
importance in the world; never before has been, never again
will be, we may trust, her existence of so little moment to
any human being--that existence which, meanwhile, in spite of
all such indifference, in perfect unconsciousness of it
indeed, is beginning to assert itself again. For though the
Superior had died amidst lamentations, and the places of Soeurs
Eulalie and Marguerite will know them no more, our little
Madelon, over whom there are none to lament or rejoice, will
live.
One afternoon she awoke, as from a long sleep. The low sun was
shining into the cell, lighting up the wooden crucifix on the
white-washed wall; Soeur Lucie, in her strait coif and long
black veil, was sitting by the bedside reading her book of
hours; through the window could be seen a strip of blue sky
crossed by some budding tree in the convent garden, little
birds were beginning to chirp and twitter amongst the
branches. The spring had come in these last days whilst
Madelon had been lying there, and in the midst of the glad
resurrection of all nature, she too was stirring and awakening
to consciousness, and a new life.
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