already
gathering. The end was at hand; there was a stifling, a slow and
passive agony. The dear angel no longer had strength to offer
resistance. Monsieur Rambaud, overcome, threw himself on his knees,
convulsed with silent sobbing, and dragged himself behind a curtain to
hide his grief. The Abbe was kneeling at the bedside, with clasped
hands, repeating the prayers for the dying.

"Jeanne! Jeanne!" murmured Helene, chilled to the heart with a horror
which sent an icy thrill through her very hair.

She had repulsed the doctor and thrown herself on the ground, leaning
against the bed to gaze into her daughter's face. Jeanne opened her
eyes, but did not look at her mother. She drew her doll--her last
love--still closer. Her bosom heaved with a big sigh, followed by two
fainter ones. Then her eyes paled, and her face for a moment gave
signs of a fearful anguish. But speedily there came relief; her mouth
remained open, she breathed no more.

"It is over," said the doctor, as he took her hand.

Jeanne's big, vacant eyes were fixed on Paris. The long, thin,
lamb-like face was still further elongated, there was a sternness on
its features, a grey shadow falling from its contracted brows. Thus
even in death she retained the livid expression of a jealous woman.
The doll, with its head flung back, and its hair dishevelled, seemed
to lie dead beside her.

"It is over," again said the doctor, as he allowed the little cold
hand to drop.

Helene, with a strained expression on her face, pressed her hands to
her brow as if she felt her head splitting open. No tears came to her
eyes; she gazed wildly in front of her. Then a rattling noise mounted
in her throat; she had just espied at the foot of the bed a pair of
shoes that lay forgotten there. It was all over. Jeanne would never
put them on again; the little shoes could be given to the poor. And at
the sight Helene's tears gushed forth; she still knelt on the floor,
her face pressed against the dead child's hand, which had slipped
down. Monsieur Rambaud was sobbing. The Abbe had raised his voice, and
Rosalie, standing at the door of the dining-room, was biting her
handkerchief to check the noise of her grief.

At this very moment Doctor Deberle rang the bell. He was unable to
refrain from making inquiries.

"How is she now?" he asked.

"Oh, sir!" wailed Rosalie, "she is dead."

He stood motionless, stupefied by the announcement of the end which he
had been expecting dail