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The factory had been closed all day, the carriage gate was bolted, the street was deserted. There was no one in the house but the two nuns, Sister Perpetue and Sister Simplice, who were watching beside the body of Fantine.
Sister Simplice, who had been watching with her, availed herself of this slumber to go and prepare a new potion of chinchona. The worthy sister had been in the laboratory of the infirmary but a few moments, bending over her drugs and phials, and scrutinizing things very closely, on account of the dimness which the half-light of dawn spreads over all objects.
Jean Valjean blew out the light and placed himself in this angle. Sister Simplice fell on her knees near the table. The door opened. Javert entered. The whispers of many men and the protestations of the portress were audible in the corridor. The nun did not raise her eyes. She was praying. The candle was on the chimney-piece, and gave but very little light.
She had taken the name of Simplice through special choice. "Simplice, of Sicily, our readers will remember, is the saint who sooner let her bosom be plucked out than say she was a native of Segeste, as she was born at Syracuse, though the falsehood would have saved her. Such a patron saint suited this soul."
Fantine laid her head on her pillow and said in a low voice: "Yes, lie down again; be good, for you are going to have your child; Sister Simplice is right; every one here is right." And then, without stirring, without even moving her head, she began to stare all about her with wide-open eyes and a joyous air, and she said nothing more.
This was proved by the crumbs which were found on the floor of the room when the authorities made an examination later on. There came two taps at the door. "Come in," said he. It was Sister Simplice. She was pale; her eyes were red; the candle which she carried trembled in her hand.
The two nuns who performed the services of nurse in the infirmary, Lazariste ladies, like all sisters of charity, bore the names of Sister Perpetue and Sister Simplice. Sister Perpetue was an ordinary villager, a sister of charity in a coarse style, who had entered the service of God as one enters any other service. She was a nun as other women are cooks. This type is not so very rare.
Sister Simplice blushed faintly, for it was a lie that the maid had proposed to her. On the other hand, it seemed to her that the mere communication of the truth to the invalid would, without doubt, deal her a terrible blow, and that this was a serious matter in Fantine's present state.
"Good God, sir!" she exclaimed; "what has happened to you? Your hair is perfectly white!" "White!" said he. Sister Simplice had no mirror. She rummaged in a drawer, and pulled out the little glass which the doctor of the infirmary used to see whether a patient was dead and whether he no longer breathed. M. Madeleine took the mirror, looked at his hair, and said: "Well!"
She lay down again, with the nun's assistance, helped the nun to arrange her pillow, and kissed the little silver cross which she wore on her neck, and which Sister Simplice had given her. "My child," said the sister, "try to rest now, and do not talk any more." Fantine took the sister's hand in her moist hands, and the latter was pained to feel that perspiration.
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