She was dead at 3:30 in the afternoon. It was Holy Wednesday, April 17, 1680. She was 24 years old. We are in the heart of the afternoon. Le P. Cholenec was praying beside the new corpse. His eyes were closed. Suddenly he opened his eyes and cried out in amazement, “Je fis un grand cri, tant je fus saisi d’étonnement.”
– Eeeeeoooowwww!
The face of Catherine Tekakwitha had turned white!
– Viens ici!
– Look at her face!
Let us examine the eyewitness account of le P. Cholenec, and let us try to suppress our political judgments, and remember that I promised you good news. “From the age of four years, Catherine’s face had been branded by the Plague; her sickness and her mortifications had further contributed to the disfigurement. But this face, so battered and so very swarthy, underwent a sudden change, about a quarter of an hour after her death. And in a moment she became so beautiful and so white …”
– Claude!
Le P. Chauchetière came running, and a village of Indians followed him. As if in peaceful sleep, as if under a parasol of glass, she floated into the dark Canadian afternoon, her face serene and bright as alabaster. Thus she launched her death, upturned face of white, under the concentrated gaze of the village. Le P. Chauchetière said:
– C’était un argument nouveau de crédibilité, dont Dieu favorisait les sauvages pour leur faire goûter la foi.
– Shhhhhhh!
– Hush!
Two Frenchmen happened to be passing by later on. One of them said:
– Look at that pretty girl sleeping there.
When they found out who it was, they knelt in prayer.
– Let us make the coffin.
At that precise moment the girl entered the eternal machinery of the sky. Looking back over her atomic shoulder, she played a beam of alabaster over her old face as she streamed forward on the insane grateful laughter of her girl friend.