读者即将读到的这些事件，在滨海蒙特勒伊并非尽人皆知。但其中传扬开来的那一小部分，在这座小城里留下了如此深刻的记忆，倘若我们不将其最细微的细节一一叙述，本书中将出现一个严重的空白。在这些细节中，读者将会遇到两三个看似不可能的情况，但我们出于对真相的尊重，仍将其保留。
在沙威来访后的第二天下午，马德兰先生照常去看望芳汀。
在进入芳汀的房间之前，他派人去叫散普丽斯嬷嬷。
在医务室担任护士的两位修女，和所有仁爱会的修女一样，是拉匝禄修女会的成员，名叫佩佩蒂嬷嬷和散普丽斯嬷嬷。
佩佩蒂嬷嬷是个普通的村妇，一种粗犷风格的仁爱会修女，她侍奉上帝就像从事任何其他职业一样。她是个修女，正如别的女人是厨娘。这种类型并不罕见。修道院乐意接受这种沉重的乡村陶器，它们很容易被塑造成嘉布遣会修士或乌尔苏拉会修女。这些乡下人被用来做粗重的虔诚工作。从牛倌转变为加尔默罗会修士丝毫不是剧变；一个变成另一个并不费什么力气；乡村和修道院共有的愚昧基础是一种现成的准备，使乡下人立刻与僧侣处于同一水平：罩衫再宽大些，就成了僧袍。佩佩蒂嬷嬷是个健壮的修女，来自蓬图瓦兹附近的马林，她叽叽喳喳地说着土话，唠叨，抱怨，根据病人的偏执或虚伪来给汤药加糖，粗暴地对待病人，对临终者态度乖戾，几乎是把上帝扔到他们脸上，用愤怒嘟囔的祈祷来打击他们的临终痛苦；她大胆、诚实、面色红润。
散普丽斯嬷嬷则洁白如蜡，带着蜡般的苍白。在佩佩蒂嬷嬷身旁，她就像蜡烛旁的细蜡烛。圣文森特·德·保罗用这些令人钦佩的话语神圣地勾勒出仁爱会修女的形象，其中他将自由与奴役融为一体：“她们的修道院只能是病人的家；她们的修室只能是租来的房间；她们的小教堂只能是教区教堂；她们的回廊只能是城镇的街道和医院的病房；她们的围墙只能是服从；她们的栅栏只能是敬畏上帝；她们的面纱只能是谦虚。” 这个理想在散普丽斯嬷嬷的活生生的身上实现了：她从未年轻过，而且似乎永远不会变老。没有人能说出散普丽斯嬷嬷的年龄。她是一个人——我们不敢说是一个女人——温柔、严肃、有教养、冷漠，而且从未撒过谎。她是如此温柔，以至于显得脆弱；但她比花岗岩还要坚实。她用迷人般纯洁纤细的手指触碰不幸的人。可以说，她的言语中有一种沉默；她只说必要的话，而且她的声音既能使告解室受到启迪，也能使客厅为之陶醉。这种细腻与她穿的哔叽长袍相得益彰，在这种粗糙的接触中，她不断感受到天堂和上帝的提醒。让我们强调一个细节。从不撒谎，从不为了任何利益，甚至出于漠不关心，而说出任何不真实的话，任何非神圣真理的话，这是散普丽斯嬷嬷的独特特质；这是她美德的标志。她在修会中几乎因这种坚定不移的诚实而闻名。西卡尔神父在给聋哑人马西厄的信中提到了散普丽斯嬷嬷。无论我们多么纯洁和真诚，我们的坦率上总是带着小小的、无辜的谎言的裂痕。她没有。小小的谎言，无辜的谎言——这种事情存在吗？说谎是邪恶的绝对形式。说一点谎是不可能的：说谎的人，就是说全部谎言的人。说谎正是魔鬼的面孔。撒旦有两个名字；他被称为撒旦和谎言。这就是她的想法；她怎么想，就怎么做。其结果是我们提到的那种洁白——一种甚至用光芒覆盖她的嘴唇和眼睛的洁白。她的微笑是洁白的，她的目光是洁白的。在那良知的玻璃窗上，没有一丝蜘蛛网，没有一粒灰尘。在加入圣文森特·德·保罗修会时，她特意选择了散普丽斯这个名字。我们知道，西西里的散普丽斯是一位圣人，她宁愿被扯掉双乳，也不愿说出她出生在西拉库萨，而她实际上出生在塞杰斯塔——一个本可以救她的谎言。这位主保圣人适合这样的灵魂。
散普丽斯嬷嬷在加入修会时，有两个缺点，她已逐渐改正：她嗜好美食，喜欢收信。她只读一本粗体拉丁文印刷的祈祷书。她不懂拉丁文，但她懂这本书。
这位虔诚的妇女对芳汀产生了一种爱护之情，大概是感觉到了那里有一种潜在的品德，她几乎全身心地投入到对她的照料中。
马德兰先生把散普丽斯嬷嬷拉到一旁，用一种特别的语气把芳汀托付给她，这种语气修女后来回想起来。
离开修女后，他走近芳汀。
芳汀每天等待着马德兰先生的到来，如同等待温暖和欢乐的光芒。她对修女们说：“只有市长先生在这里的时候，我才觉得活着。”
那天她烧得很厉害。一看到马德兰先生，她就问他：
“珂赛特呢？”
他微笑着回答：
“快了。”
马德兰先生对芳汀和往常一样。只是他待了一个小时而不是半小时，这让芳汀非常高兴。他一再叮嘱大家，不要让病人缺少任何东西。有人注意到，有一阵子他的脸色变得非常阴沉。但后来得知医生俯在他耳边说：“她病情恶化得很快。” 这一点就得到了解释。
随后他回到市政厅，书记员注意到他正专心致志地审视着悬挂在他书房里的一幅法国公路图。他用铅笔在一小片纸上写了几个数字。
The incidents the reader is about to peruse were not all known at M.
sur M. But the small portion of them which became known left such a
memory in that town that a serious gap would exist in this book if we
did not narrate them in their most minute details. Among these details
the reader will encounter two or three improbable circumstances, which
we preserve out of respect for the truth.
On the afternoon following the visit of Javert, M. Madeleine went to
see Fantine according to his wont.
Before entering Fantine’s room, he had Sister Simplice summoned.
The two nuns who performed the services of nurse in the infirmary,
Lazariste ladies, like all sisters of charity, bore the names of Sister
Perpétue and Sister Simplice.
Sister Perpétue 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. The monastic orders gladly accept this heavy peasant
earthenware, which is easily fashioned into a Capuchin or an Ursuline.
These rustics are utilized for the rough work of devotion. The
transition from a drover to a Carmelite is not in the least violent;
the one turns into the other without much effort; the fund of ignorance
common to the village and the cloister is a preparation ready at hand,
and places the boor at once on the same footing as the monk: a little
more amplitude in the smock, and it becomes a frock. Sister Perpétue
was a robust nun from Marines near Pontoise, who chattered her patois,
droned, grumbled, sugared the potion according to the bigotry or the
hypocrisy of the invalid, treated her patients abruptly, roughly, was
crabbed with the dying, almost flung God in their faces, stoned their
death agony with prayers mumbled in a rage; was bold, honest, and
ruddy.
Sister Simplice was white, with a waxen pallor. Beside Sister Perpétue,
she was the taper beside the candle. Vincent de Paul has divinely
traced the features of the Sister of Charity in these admirable words,
in which he mingles as much freedom as servitude: “They shall have for
their convent only the house of the sick; for cell only a hired room;
for chapel only their parish church; for cloister only the streets of
the town and the wards of the hospitals; for enclosure only obedience;
for gratings only the fear of God; for veil only modesty.” This ideal
was realized in the living person of Sister Simplice: she had never
been young, and it seemed as though she would never grow old. No one
could have told Sister Simplice’s age. She was a person—we dare not say
a woman—who was gentle, austere, well-bred, cold, and who had never
lied. She was so gentle that she appeared fragile; but she was more
solid than granite. She touched the unhappy with fingers that were
charmingly pure and fine. There was, so to speak, silence in her
speech; she said just what was necessary, and she possessed a tone of
voice which would have equally edified a confessional or enchanted a
drawing-room. This delicacy accommodated itself to the serge gown,
finding in this harsh contact a continual reminder of heaven and of
God. Let us emphasize one detail. Never to have lied, never to have
said, for any interest whatever, even in indifference, any single thing
which was not the truth, the sacred truth, was Sister Simplice’s
distinctive trait; it was the accent of her virtue. She was almost
renowned in the congregation for this imperturbable veracity. The Abbé
Sicard speaks of Sister Simplice in a letter to the deaf-mute Massieu.
However pure and sincere we may be, we all bear upon our candor the
crack of the little, innocent lie. She did not. Little lie, innocent
lie—does such a thing exist? To lie is the absolute form of evil. To
lie a little is not possible: he who lies, lies the whole lie. To lie
is the very face of the demon. Satan has two names; he is called Satan
and Lying. That is what she thought; and as she thought, so she did.
The result was the whiteness which we have mentioned—a whiteness which
covered even her lips and her eyes with radiance. Her smile was white,
her glance was white. There was not a single spider’s web, not a grain
of dust, on the glass window of that conscience. On entering the order
of Saint Vincent de Paul, she had taken the name of Simplice by special
choice. Simplice of Sicily, as we know, is the saint who preferred to
allow both her breasts to be torn off rather than to say that she had
been born at Segesta when she had been born at Syracuse—a lie which
would have saved her. This patron saint suited this soul.
Sister Simplice, on her entrance into the order, had had two faults
which she had gradually corrected: she had a taste for dainties, and
she liked to receive letters. She never read anything but a book of
prayers printed in Latin, in coarse type. She did not understand Latin,
but she understood the book.
This pious woman had conceived an affection for Fantine, probably
feeling a latent virtue there, and she had devoted herself almost
exclusively to her care.
M. Madeleine took Sister Simplice apart and recommended Fantine to her
in a singular tone, which the sister recalled later on.
On leaving the sister, he approached Fantine.
Fantine awaited M. Madeleine’s appearance every day as one awaits a ray
of warmth and joy. She said to the sisters, “I only live when Monsieur
le Maire is here.”
She had a great deal of fever that day. As soon as she saw M. Madeleine
she asked him:—
“And Cosette?”
He replied with a smile:—
“Soon.”
M. Madeleine was the same as usual with Fantine. Only he remained an
hour instead of half an hour, to Fantine’s great delight. He urged
every one repeatedly not to allow the invalid to want for anything. It
was noticed that there was a moment when his countenance became very
sombre. But this was explained when it became known that the doctor had
bent down to his ear and said to him, “She is losing ground fast.”
Then he returned to the town-hall, and the clerk observed him
attentively examining a road map of France which hung in his study. He
wrote a few figures on a bit of paper with a pencil.
