Iâll write and give you an appointment. And meantime, she shouldnât worry, and she should
tell herself that even if this is a cancer, which is not at all certain, these days we have very effective ways of fighting it â¦â
She smiled, the most pathetic smile he had seen in his life, and fearing he was about to burst into tears himself, he turned to the window.
âWeâre holding you up, professor.â
She trotted along the street beside him. He repeated to her Charbonneauâs sentence, the famous sentence which the patient was often to hear from her family.
They had to pick up their luggage from the hotel. His mother insisted on changing her clothes, because she didnât want to return to Saint-Hilaire in her Sunday best.
And while she was getting dressed in the other room, he found himself thinking quite calmly and lucidly, in the midst of his emotion:
âSince my prayer hasnât been answered, my vow doesnât have to be kept.â
6. The Burial at Saint-Hilaire
She insisted on having her own way until the very end. During the last days, although she had become terrifyingly thin, they couldnât keep her in bed. As soon as their backs were turned, she was up and poking about all over the house,
engaged on mysterious errands. She made so little noise that other members of the household were surprised to find her behind them, or emerging from a closet. She would put a finger to her lips, like a child caught out being naughty.
âHush! Donât tell François!â
It was April. In the autumn, the gardener had planted a large strawberry bed, and she had said to him:
âI donât think Iâll be eating any of these, Guérin â¦â
He was fifteen years older than her, and still looked after all the gardens in the village. He could remember back when she was a little girl, the day he had been called up for military service and had gone with his age group to be offered drinks
in every house: she had put a gold coin into the collection. She said it wasnât true, that the old man was inventing memories.
They often surprised her writing in a little notebook which she took great care not to leave lying about. But it was in the linen cupboards that she spent most of her time, as if she wanted to compose an inventory.
They joked about that, without suspecting that it was the truth.
For the previous two months, she had refused to contemplate an operation, even when Professor Charbonneau had come in person from Poitiers to persuade her.
âWhy put me through all that, when thereâs nothing to be done?â
But it was precisely because the disease was terminal that it was thought necessary to try the operation. They wove a veritable conspiracy around her. Dr Péchade was in on it, of course, and the whole family, their friends, and any local people
who called to see her. They were told about it. She knew. She would see them come in and as soon as they opened their mouths:
âGet along with you, I know what youâre going to say.â
Everyone had an uncle, aunt, sister-in-law or cousin whose life had been saved by an operation in a much more serious case.
In the end, she gave in.
âJust to have a bit of peace!â she sighed.
She was certainly in great pain. But when it came to arranging the trip to hospital, they met fresh resistance, more determination than ever. In this struggle, she truly exhausted the remains of her strength.
She clung on to the house and they were obliged to look away, during the last days, as they saw her staring hard at the walls, the ornaments, the familiar furniture. From cellar to attic, into every nook and cranny, she trotted round as if making
a kind of mournful pilgrimage, giving a start and looking embarrassed if she was caught
unawares, pretending to be searching for something, inventing some final excuses.
On the day before she was due to leave, Madame Papin turned up, and it was a
tell herself that even if this is a cancer, which is not at all certain, these days we have very effective ways of fighting it â¦â
She smiled, the most pathetic smile he had seen in his life, and fearing he was about to burst into tears himself, he turned to the window.
âWeâre holding you up, professor.â
She trotted along the street beside him. He repeated to her Charbonneauâs sentence, the famous sentence which the patient was often to hear from her family.
They had to pick up their luggage from the hotel. His mother insisted on changing her clothes, because she didnât want to return to Saint-Hilaire in her Sunday best.
And while she was getting dressed in the other room, he found himself thinking quite calmly and lucidly, in the midst of his emotion:
âSince my prayer hasnât been answered, my vow doesnât have to be kept.â
6. The Burial at Saint-Hilaire
She insisted on having her own way until the very end. During the last days, although she had become terrifyingly thin, they couldnât keep her in bed. As soon as their backs were turned, she was up and poking about all over the house,
engaged on mysterious errands. She made so little noise that other members of the household were surprised to find her behind them, or emerging from a closet. She would put a finger to her lips, like a child caught out being naughty.
âHush! Donât tell François!â
It was April. In the autumn, the gardener had planted a large strawberry bed, and she had said to him:
âI donât think Iâll be eating any of these, Guérin â¦â
He was fifteen years older than her, and still looked after all the gardens in the village. He could remember back when she was a little girl, the day he had been called up for military service and had gone with his age group to be offered drinks
in every house: she had put a gold coin into the collection. She said it wasnât true, that the old man was inventing memories.
They often surprised her writing in a little notebook which she took great care not to leave lying about. But it was in the linen cupboards that she spent most of her time, as if she wanted to compose an inventory.
They joked about that, without suspecting that it was the truth.
For the previous two months, she had refused to contemplate an operation, even when Professor Charbonneau had come in person from Poitiers to persuade her.
âWhy put me through all that, when thereâs nothing to be done?â
But it was precisely because the disease was terminal that it was thought necessary to try the operation. They wove a veritable conspiracy around her. Dr Péchade was in on it, of course, and the whole family, their friends, and any local people
who called to see her. They were told about it. She knew. She would see them come in and as soon as they opened their mouths:
âGet along with you, I know what youâre going to say.â
Everyone had an uncle, aunt, sister-in-law or cousin whose life had been saved by an operation in a much more serious case.
In the end, she gave in.
âJust to have a bit of peace!â she sighed.
She was certainly in great pain. But when it came to arranging the trip to hospital, they met fresh resistance, more determination than ever. In this struggle, she truly exhausted the remains of her strength.
She clung on to the house and they were obliged to look away, during the last days, as they saw her staring hard at the walls, the ornaments, the familiar furniture. From cellar to attic, into every nook and cranny, she trotted round as if making
a kind of mournful pilgrimage, giving a start and looking embarrassed if she was caught
unawares, pretending to be searching for something, inventing some final excuses.
On the day before she was due to leave, Madame Papin turned up, and it was a
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