resignation of the outcast who knows
that she is dying. Sometimes she would long remain with her eyelids
half closed, and nobody could divine what stubborn thought was thus
absorbing her. Nothing now had any existence for her save her big
doll, which lay beside her. They had given it to her one night to
divert her during her insufferable anguish, and she refused to give it
back, defending it with fierce gestures the moment they attempted to
take it from her. With its pasteboard head resting on the bolster, the
doll was stretched out like an invalid, covered up to the shoulders by
the counterpane. There was little doubt the child was nursing it, for
her burning hands would, from time to time, feel its disjointed limbs
of flesh-tinted leather, whence all the sawdust had exuded. For hours
her eyes would never stray from those enamel ones which were always
fixed, or from those white teeth wreathed in an everlasting smile. She
would suddenly grow affectionate, clasp the doll's hands against her
bosom and press her cheek against its little head of hair, the
caressing contact of which seemed to give her some relief. Thus she
sought comfort in her affection for her big doll, always assuring
herself of its presence when she awoke from a doze, seeing nothing
else, chatting with it, and at times summoning to her face the shadow
of a smile, as though she had heard it whispering something in her
ear.

The third week was dragging to an end. One morning the old doctor came
and remained. Helene understood him: her child would not live through
the day. Since the previous evening she had been in a stupor that
deprived her of the consciousness even of her own actions. There was
no longer any struggle with death; it was but a question of hours. As
the dying child was consumed by an awful thirst, the doctor had merely
recommended that she should be given some opiate beverage, which would
render her passing less painful; and the relinquishing of all attempts
at cure reduced Helene to a state of imbecility. So long as the
medicines had littered the night-table she still had entertained hopes
of a miraculous recovery. But now bottles and boxes had vanished, and
her last trust was gone. One instinct only inspired her now--to be
near Jeanne, never leave her, gaze at her unceasingly. The doctor,
wishing to distract her attention from the terrible sight, strove, by
assigning some little duties to her, to keep her at a distance. But
she ever and e