But she raised her face,
streaming with tears, and bitterly accused herself. She declared to
him that she herself had killed her daughter, and a full confession
escaped from her lips in a torrent of broken words. She would never
have succumbed to that man had Jeanne remained beside her. It had been
fated that she should meet him in that chamber of mystery. God in
Heaven! she ought to die with her child; she could live no longer. The
priest, terrified, sought to calm her with the promise of absolution.

But there was a ring at the bell, and a sound of voices came from the
lobby. Helene dried her tears as Rosalie made her appearance.

"Madame, it's Dr. Deberle, who--"

"I don't wish him to come in."

"He is asking after mademoiselle."

"Tell him she is dying."

The door had been left open, and Henri had heard everything. Without
awaiting the return of the servant girl, he walked down the stairs. He
came up every day, received the same answer, and then went away.

The visits which Helene received quite unnerved her. The few ladies
whose acquaintance she had made at the Deberles' house deemed it their
duty to tender her their sympathy. Madame de Chermette, Madame
Levasseur, Madame de Guiraud, and others also presented themselves.
They made no request to enter, but catechised Rosalie in such loud
voices that they could be heard through the thin partitions. Giving
way to impatience, Helene would then receive them in the dining-room,
where, without sitting down, she spoke with them very briefly. She
went about all day in her dressing-gown, careless of her attire, with
her lovely hair merely gathered up and twisted into a knot. Her eyes
often closed with weariness; her face was flushed; she had a bitter
taste in her mouth; her lips were clammy, and she could scarcely
articulate. When Juliette called, she could not exclude her from the
bedroom, but allowed her to stay for a little while beside the bed.

"My dear," Madame Deberle said to her one day in friendly tones, "you
give way too much. Keep up your spirits."

Helene was about to reply, when Juliette, wishing to turn her thoughts
from her grief, began to chat about the things which were occupying
the gossips of Paris: "We are certainly going to have a war. I am in a
nice state about it, as I have two cousins who will have to serve."

In this style she would drop in upon them on returning from her
rambles through Paris, her brain bursting with all the tittle-tattl