Bertine was amazed when she saw Séraphin returning alone from the village. Donalda was coughing more and more, breathing less and less easily. Twice during the morning she had emptied and washed out the bowl. The mucus now was rust-coloured and even streaked with blood. How frightening it was! She didn’t want to believe it, but she felt that Donalda was slipping away gradually, like a rose touched by a frost.

Good housekeeper that she was, Bertine had managed, even though there was nothing in the house, to bake bread and churn five or six pounds of butter. But her cousin’s illness worried her and made her too jumpy. Whenever she heard a cough she dashed like a madwoman up the stair and fretted, her soul in torment, round the bed. But all was in vain, because the doctor couldn’t come. It was the premonition that had plagued her for four hours.

“It’s terrible,” said Séraphin, entering the house. “The doctor’s not at home. He’s apparently gone to Montreal on account of his elderly mother who is dying too.”

The phrase slipped out, but fortunately Bertine was preoccupied.

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

They sat down at the table. No sooner had they begun to eat the leftover white sauce when a resounding 'whoa' was heard over the noise of a carriage stopping abruptly in front of the door.

It was Alexis. Dressed in black, clean shaven, a new hat in his hand, but with a sad expression on his face, he asked after the invalid.

"How is she? Is it bad? Has the doctor been?  Bertine, your mother has sent these for Donalda. It's mustard for a poultice, linseed for an infusion, and this little bottle here is turnip juice. Nothing could do her more good. If this doesn't make Donalda recover I don't know what will. By the way, I was going to come back yesterday, but I was detained in the village."

The truth is, he had been drinking until he was plastered, the poor man. He wanted to drown his pain. And that pain, now more acute and raw than ever, rose to the surface again. You could see it in his expression, in his agitation, and especially when he started up the staircase.

With the greatest care,  as though he were entering a holy place, he approached the bed.

"How are you, Donalda," he said, with a gentleness that surprised even himself.

"Alexis …."

And the sick woman reached out a damp hand to him, which already looked like wax.

"Listen, Donalda. I'm going to look for a doctor for you. I'll go to Saint-Agatha if necessary."

"No, Alexis. The roads are too bad. It's too far. Be sensible."

She had difficulty finishing her sentence. A spasm of coughing shook her.

"The roads aren't bad; it's not far: I'll be back with a doctor by evening," he assured her.

"Do you know, Alexis? I would love to see the priest now."

"Right, we'll get the priest here as well. When I'm passing Gladu's house I'll ask him to bring him here." And downstairs he came, blowing his nose.

"So, Séraphin," he said, "the doctor's not at home?"

"No Alexis."

"Fine, in that case I'll go straight to Saint-Agatha. It's half past twelve. I can be back here by eight in the evening. My little Cinders is pretty fast."

"As you wish, Alexis," Séraphin replied.

"I'll also send word to young Gladu to go and fetch the priest."

"That's very good: the priest."

Séraphin was really surprised that he hadn't thought of that sooner, as the priest would come without charging a cent.

Bertine subconsciously compared her father, strong, handsome and tall, with Séraphin, mawkish, hesitant and irritating. How she admired him! He sped out of the house and disappeared over the hill, with his daughter's devoted gaze still following him.

"Maybe he'll be able to find a doctor," said Séraphin, sitting back down at the table.

"He will," promised Bertine.

They ate in silence, without much appetite. Poudrier reckoned that he'd done everything within his power. If the doctor hadn't been there, it wasn't his fault. And he'd even saved a good two dollars, a definite benefit. On the other hand he hoped that the doctor at Saint-Agatha was away too. Otherwise, he would cost ten dollars. Ten dollars! A month's wages in the camps. A fortune. Or at least a good start. It's true that his wife was ill, but everybody got ill and got over it. One moment he was congratulating himself on saving two dollars, the next he was agonising over the thought that this could perhaps cost him ten. What a terrible ordeal this illness of Donalda's was! And again, as on the previous day, he cursed married life.

He was deep in thought when he heard a sound like weak hiccups.

Bertine rushed up to the attic.

Donalda was weeping quietly, wringing her hands. She cried like an undiscovered stream in a mountain that no-one had ever seen. Her cheeks were still hot and pink, pink like the most beautiful roses on the most beautiful summer's day.

"Don't cry," sobbed Bertine, kissing her cousin’s face over and over again.

In despair the invalid pointed to the plaster crucifix on the old cracked wall. Bertine gave it to her and she seized it eagerly and kissed it passionately.

"How sad it is, Lord, to die so young,"  she said with great effort. "But I want to die. Come and take me to you, sweet Lord!"

"Can I get you anything," asked Bertine who could scarcely hold back her tears. "Would you like a little turnip juice? Mother says it will do you good."

She signalled no, as she looked around the humble bedroom where she had suffered so much, uncomplaining, deprived of children, of maternal joy, and all human happiness. She didn't blame the person responsible. She had only forgiveness in her heart, and she pardoned him, her husband, who had just arrived at the foot of the bed. She beckoned him to come near. She stretched out her hand which he stroked tenderly, perhaps for the first time in his life.

"My poor dear, promise me you'll never remarry. You will always be happiest on your own."

"I promise, dearest."

And Poudrier lowered his forehead to the waxen hand.

Bertine ran from the skylight of the attic to the kitchen window, anxious, on edge, scanning the horizon hoping that suddenly either the doctor or the priest would appear. Nothing. Always nothing. The poor child was at the end of her tether. She would have given her life to save Donalda.  About six o'clock in the evening the rain began to fall. Through the humid night came the sound of a little silver bell, which grew louder at intervals, cutting through the oppressive countryside.

"Here is the good Lord," said Bertine, taking off her apron and lighting two candles.

Poudrier came downstairs and stood near the door. Soon he could see the light of a lantern describing an arc in the courtyard near the edge of the well. Séraphin and Bertine knelt as the door opened. Bertine followed the priest to the attic. She lit a church candle, put holy water and a palm leaf in a saucer, and placed the ritual objects on the little table beside the sick woman to whom she gave a white napkin.

Donalda indicated that she wanted to confess. Bertine left and joined her cousin in the kitchen, seated in front of the stove, his head in his hands. In a dark corner of the room Timéon Gladu was also lost in thought, the lighted lantern at his feet. Bertine paced up and down, her arms crossed. A sudden murmur broke the silence. They went up.

The priest was saying prayers in Latin. Then he gave the invalid a communion wafer. As soon as the host touched her dry tongue Donalda closed her eyes and, remembering her first communion, she saw herself going up to the holy table in the village church wearing a little calico dress, her soul pure and shining. This solemn moment brought the scene back to her in precise detail with brilliant clarity. She breathed the exhilarating air of this sacred June day, where the sun flooded its rays of light over the mountains and the fields, on the water, the trees, the flowers, into the church and into her heart. Donalda received the flesh and blood of the Saviour of the world as two tears, the final two, coming from the depth of her being, ran slowly down her burning cheeks.

The priest said another prayer, and everyone answered together, "Amen." The sick woman stared straight ahead of her, as if deep in a trance. The messenger of God began to administer the Last Rites with slow, gentle motions. Donalda's face changed all of a sudden. She grew pale and soon became pure and white as a lily. Her eyes still shone. She had reached the point where eternity wins its first battle with human life. She rested.

The priest drew up a chair and sat by the bed, his prayer book in his hand. Facing him on the other side stood Bertine. Poudrier could scarcely move, dragging his worn out boots as if they had been stuck forever to the floor. Timéon Gladu, too easily upset to take part in such a scene, went downstairs to the kitchen. He blew out his lantern and went outside for a few minutes to breathe the air heavy with wet rain. Bertine watched Donalda with such sadness that the priest could not prevent a tear from falling slowly onto the covers. He had known much unhappiness and more than one death had affected him, but never so much as this one which melted the heart of the holy man.

Donalda's breathing became irregular as if she was desperately chasing an elusive wind. Sweat covered her deathly pale skin. At one point she waved her hand gently twice in front of her face from top to bottom as if a spider's web was disturbing her. Her cold feet protruded from the bedclothes as she dragged the damp covers about her. A sigh seemed strangely to ease her, but she seemed to be obsessed. She could see deformed creatures running across the wall, dwarves with huge heads and no arms. She didn’t try to chase them away, but what wouldn't she have given to be lying in another room? Suddenly, she sat up in bed, arms outstretched.

"Rest," said Bertine, plumping up the pillows.

"If only I could die," said Donalda in a voice that was no longer human.

And she collapsed back on the bed.

Father Raudin knelt and began the prayer of the dying. "Have pity on me, God," he recited in a firm voice, "have pity on me in Your great mercy. Lord, my God all my hope is in You, spare me. I deliver my soul  into Your hands. You are my God, my passing is in Your hands. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away according to his will and pleasure. Blessed be the name of the Lord. I wish to die so that I might be with Jesus Christ."

At that moment they heard the sound of a carriage climbing the hill and stopping in front of the door. Then, a little later, the sound of warm voices in the cold night.

"Goodness," cried Donalda, trying to sit up in bed. "we have visitors.  Oh, what beautiful raspberries! …" And with her hands she made a gesture as if to take hold of a large plate.

She continued to talk while the watchers, with bated breath, listened as if her words were going to reveal the enigma of the forthcoming miracle :

"How beautiful this rosary is … pure gold … My husband is very good … he gives me everything … I collected three dozen eggs this morning …. My Séraphin gave them to me so I could buy myself a Christmas present. How generous! …"

"She is delirious," said Father Raudin, sprinkling her with holy water.

It was then that Doctor Cyprien made his entrance, followed by Alexis. The clock downstairs struck eight o'clock.

"Doctor, doctor, save her," cried Bertine, wringing her hands.

The healer of physical ailments laid his bag on a chair and approached the sick woman who was dimly lit by the holy candle. He placed his hand on Donalda's head, felt her pulse and leaned over to sound her chest. Afterwards he sat down by the bed, never letting go of the wrist of the dying woman, and still fixing her with an appraising eye. Donalda was slowly turning blue, like the snow in a beam of sunlight.

"How are you feeling, my dear?" said Doctor Cyprien giving her a light tap on the hand.

"Goodness! Alexis! I'm fine. I never felt better. I've been working. I washed the floor all yesterday morning with a fine brush. You know how that relaxes me. Then I put on a beautiful silk dress … I am going to get married as soon as I become a widow … it's morning … let's hurry … there are three pounds of  butter at Alexis' house …. I have drunk all the milk."

Suddenly, Donalda shook with a violence that almost threw her out of the bed. Alexis and Doctor Cyprien grabbed her and held her down gently.

She cried out, "Let me go. You are going to kill me. How can I clean the locked room? Let go of my arm, Séraphin. I want some molasses.  The house is burning … I am burning … and the money … Séraphin, where is my money?"

And poor Donalda twisted and turned as if she were lying in a bed of live embers

"Let us pray for her," said the priest. And to the delirious words were mixed those of the Church, wise, poetical, profound, but which fell like handfuls of earth on a coffin :

"Let my soul die the death of the just; and my last end by like to them. As a roe-deer, faint, pants for the springs of water above, so my soul thirsts after You, O God, source of all consolation. Come my Lord Jesus, come. I desire only one thing, and one alone, to live in Your celestial house for all eternity. O Lord, receive Your daughter into Your house.

Donalda seemed for a moment to be calmed, her head bowed. With a blissful expression on her face, she seemed to be listening to distant voices. Father Raudin continued :

"Come Lord, do not tarry. I do not fear death for I have a good Master. O my Jesus, would that I were forever crucified with you. O my Jesus, my salvation is in Your virtues, in Your torments, and in the death that You endured for me. Holy Mary, pray for me at the hour of my death.  Holy Mary Mother of grace, protect your daughter from the enemy in the shadows. My patron saint, protect me. Divine Jesus made flesh, who for our salvation was born in a stable and lived Your life in poverty, agony and misery, and who died on the cross, say to Your heavenly Father in the hour of my death: Father forgive her. This day you shall be with me in Paradise. My God, do not abandon me. I thirst! ".

All of a sudden the dying woman made a last supreme effort. Her body, which now seemed smaller, was seized with sudden starts and tremors. She cried, "I thirst! I am burning …. The prayers … all the prayers. I have been killed …. Mummy! Mummy! Ah, the sun is so beautiful!"

She threw back her head. From her mouth came a weak breath, from infinitely far away. Sweat covered her forehead and her lips were getting visibly bluer, making her look thinner. Doctor Cyprien still held her pulse without ever taking his eyes of this poor woman who was passing away like a breeze blowing itself out at the edge of a tranquil lake. At the foot of the bed, Poudrier, his features completely motionless, watched the dying woman whom he had never loved and never known. Bertine, on her knees, her face in her hands, wept disconsolately, while her father, whose shoulders were also heaving, stood with his head by the skylight, crushed by darkness and death. 

The priest spoke again, "My soul thirsts for You. My life passes like a shadow. Into your hands I commend my spirit for all eternity. Lord Jesus, receive my soul. Amen.”

And rising, he sprinkled holy water on Donalda whose mouth opened in a large yawn. Her beautiful head fell for the last time.

Doctor Cyprien let go of Donalda's wrist, then rose, saying in a calm voice, "She has passed away."

The clock struck nine. Bertine concentrated on counting the strokes.