gtide was already budding out
of doors. Zephyrin took one step forward, and appeared in the
sunshine; his little round, freckled face had a golden hue, as of ripe
corn, while the buttons on his tunic glittered, and his red trousers
looked as sanguineous as a field of poppies. At last Jeanne became
aware of his presence there; but her eye again betrayed uneasiness,
and she glanced restlessly from one corner to another.

"What do you want, my child?" asked her mother. "We are all here." She
understood, however, in a moment. "Rosalie, come nearer. Mademoiselle
wishes to see you."

Then Rosalie, in her turn, stepped into the sunlight. She wore a cap,
whose strings, carelessly tossed over her shoulders, flapped round her
head like the wings of a butterfly. A golden powder seemed to fall on
her bristly black hair and her kindly face with its flat nose and
thick lips. And for Jeanne there were only these two in the room--the
little soldier and the servant girl, standing elbow to elbow under the
ray of sunshine. She gazed at them.

"Well, my darling," began Helene again, "you do not say anything to
them! Here they are together."

Jeanne's eyes were still fixed on them, and her head shook with the
tremor of a very aged woman. They stood there like man and wife, ready
to take each other's arm and return to their country-side. The spring
sun threw its warmth on them, and eager to brighten mademoiselle they
ended by smiling into each other's face with a look of mingled
embarrassment and tenderness. The very odor of health was exhaled from
their plump round figures. Had they been alone, Zephyrin without doubt
would have caught hold of Rosalie, and would have received for his
pains a hearty slap. Their eyes showed it.

"Well, my darling, have you nothing to say to them?"

Jeanne gazed at them, her breathing growing yet more oppressed. And
still she said not a word, but suddenly burst into tears. Zephyrin and
Rosalie had at once to quit the room.

"I beg pardon--mademoiselle and every one--" stammered the little
soldier, as he went away in bewilderment.

This was one of Jeanne's last whims. She lapsed into a dull stupor,
from which nothing could rouse her. She lay there in utter loneliness,
unconscious even of her mother's presence. When Helene hung over the
bed seeking her eyes, the child preserved a stolid expression, as
though only the shadow of the curtain had passed before her. Her lips
were dumb; she showed the gloomy