BUT AT THAT MOMENT Fantine was joyous.

      She had passed a very bad night; her cough was frightful; her fever had doubled in intensity; she had had dreams: in the morning, when the doctor paid his visit, she was delirious; he assumed an alarmed look, and ordered that he should be informed as soon as M. Madeleine arrived.

      All the morning she was melancholy, said but little, and laid plaits in her sheets, murmuring the while, in a low voice, calculations which seemed to be calculations of distances. Her eyes were hollow and staring. They seemed almost extinguished at intervals, then lighted up again and shone like stars. It seems as though, at the approach of a certain dark hour, the light of heaven fills those who are quitting the light of earth.

      Each time that Sister Simplice asked her how she felt, she replied invariably, “Well. I should like to see M. Madeleine.”

      Some months before this, at the moment when Fantine had just lost her last modesty, her last shame, and her last joy, she was the shadow of herself; now she was the spectre of herself. Physical suffering had completed the work of moral suffering. This creature of five and twenty had a wrinkled brow, flabby cheeks, pinched nostrils, teeth from which the gums had receded, a leaden complexion, a bony neck, prominent shoulder-blades, frail limbs, a clayey skin, and her golden hair was growing out sprinkled with gray. Alas! how illness improvises old-age!

      At midday the physician returned, gave some directions, inquired whether the mayor had made his appearance at the infirmary, and shook his head.

      M. Madeleine usually came to see the invalid at three o’clock. As exactness is kindness, he was exact.

      About half-past two, Fantine began to be restless. In the course of twenty minutes, she asked the nun more than ten times, “What time is it, sister?”

      Three o’clock struck. At the third stroke, Fantine sat up in bed; she who could, in general, hardly turn over, joined her yellow, fleshless hands in a sort of convulsive clasp, and the nun heard her utter one of those profound sighs which seem to throw off dejection. Then Fantine turned and looked at the door.

      No one entered; the door did not open.

      She remained thus for a quarter of an hour, her eyes riveted on the door, motionless and apparently holding her breath. The sister dared not speak to her. The clock struck a quarter past three. Fantine fell back on her pillow.

      She said nothing, but began to plait the sheets once more.

      Half an hour passed, then an hour, no one came; every time the clock struck, Fantine started up and looked towards the door, then fell back again.

      Her thought was clearly perceptible, but she uttered no name, she made no complaint, she blamed no one. But she coughed in a melancholy way. One would have said that something dark was descending upon her. She was livid and her lips were blue. She smiled now and then.

      Five o’clock struck. Then the sister heard her say, very low and gently, “He is wrong not to come to-day, since I am going away to-morrow.”

      Sister Simplice herself was surprised at M. Madeleine’s delay.

      In the meantime, Fantine was staring at the tester of her bed. She seemed to be endeavoring to recall something. All at once she began to sing in a voice as feeble as a breath. The nun listened. This is what Fantine was singing:—

      “Lovely things we will buy

      As we stroll the faubourgs through.

      Roses are pink, corn-flowers are blue,

      I love my love, corn-flowers are blue.

      “Yestere’en the Virgin Mary came near my stove, in a broidered mantle clad, and said to me, ‘Here, hide ‘neath my veil the child whom you one day begged from me. Haste to the city, buy linen, buy a needle, buy thread.’

      “Lovely things we will buy

      As we stroll the faubourgs through.

      “Dear Holy Virgin, beside my stove I have set a cradle with ribbons decked. God may give me his loveliest star; I prefer the child thou hast granted me. ‘Madame, what shall I do with this linen fine?’—‘Make of it clothes for thy new-born babe.’

      “Roses are pink and corn-flowers are blue,

      I love my love, and corn-flowers are blue.

      “‘Wash this linen.’—‘Where?’—‘In the stream. Make of it, soiling not, spoiling not, a petticoat fair with its bodice fine, which I will embroider and fill with flowers.’—‘Madame, the child is no longer here; what is to be done?’—‘Then make of it a winding-sheet in which to bury me.’

      “Lovely things we will buy

      As we stroll the faubourgs through,

      Roses are pink, corn-flowers are blue,

      I love my love, corn-flowers are blue.”

      This song was an old cradle romance with which she had, in former days, lulled her little Cosette to sleep, and which had never recurred to her mind in all the five years during which she had been parted from her child. She sang it in so sad a voice, and to so sweet an air, that it was enough to make any one, even a nun, weep. The sister, accustomed as she was to austerities, felt a tear spring to her eyes.

      The clock struck six. Fantine did not seem to hear it. She no longer seemed to pay attention to anything about her.

      Sister Simplice sent a serving-maid to inquire of the portress of the factory, whether the mayor had returned, and if he would not come to the infirmary soon. The girl returned in a few minutes.

      Fantine was still motionless and seemed absorbed in her own thoughts.

      The servant informed Sister Simplice in a very low tone, that the mayor had set out that morning before six o’clock, in a little tilbury harnessed to a white horse, cold as the weather was; that he had gone alone, without even a driver; that no one knew what road he had taken; that people said he had been seen to turn into the road to Arras; that others asserted that they had met him on the road to Paris. That when he went away he had been very gentle, as usual, and that he had merely told the portress not to expect him that night.

      While the two women were whispering together, with their backs turned to Fantine’s bed, the sister interrogating, the servant conjecturing, Fantine, with the feverish vivacity of certain organic maladies, which unite the free movements of health with the frightful emaciation of death, had raised herself to her knees in bed, with her shrivelled hands resting on the bolster, and her head thrust through the opening of the curtains, and was listening. All at once she cried:—

      “You are speaking of M. Madeleine! Why are you talking so low? What is he doing? Why does he not come?”

      Her voice was so abrupt and hoarse that the two women thought they heard the voice of a man; they wheeled round in affright.

      “Answer me!” cried Fantine.

      The servant stammered:—

      “The portress told me that he could not come to-day.”