They were wholly unable to drag her from that room. For six-and-thirty
hours she had lingered there, despite the prayers of Monsieur Rambaud
and the Abbe Jouve, who kept watch with her. During the last two
nights she had been weighed to the earth by immeasurable agony.
Besides, she had accomplished the grievous task of dressing her
daughter for the last time, of putting on those white silk shoes, for
she would allow no other to touch the feet of the little angel who lay
dead. And now she sat motionless, as though her strength were spent,
and the intensity of her grief had lulled her into forgetfulness.

"Have you got some flowers?" she exclaimed after an effort, her eyes
still fixed on Madame Deberle.

"Yes, yes, my dear," answered the latter. "Don't trouble yourself
about that."

Since her daughter had breathed her last, Helene had been consumed
with one idea--there must be flowers, flowers, an overwhelming
profusion of flowers. Each time she saw anybody, she grew uneasy,
seemingly afraid that sufficient flowers would never be obtained.

"Are there any roses?" she began again after a pause.

"Yes. I assure you that you will be well pleased."

She shook her head, and once more fell back into her stupor. In the
meantime the undertaker's men were waiting on the landing. It must be
got over now without delay. Monsieur Rambaud, who was himself affected
to such a degree that he staggered like a drunken man, signed to
Juliette to assist him in leading the poor woman from the room. Each
slipped an arm gently beneath hers, and they raised her up and led her
towards the dining-room. But the moment she divined their intention,
she shook them from her in a last despairing outburst. The scene was
heartrending. She threw herself on her knees at the bedside and clung
passionately to the sheets, while the room re-echoed with her piteous
shrieks. But still Jeanne lay there with her face of stone, stiff and
icy-cold, wrapped round by the silence of eternity. She seemed to be
frowning; there was a sour pursing of the lips, eloquent of a
revengeful nature; and it was this gloomy, pitiless look, springing
from jealousy and transforming her face, which drove Helene so
frantic. During the preceding thirty-six hours she had not failed to
notice how the old spiteful expression had grown more and more intense
upon her daughter's face, how more and more sullen she looked the
nearer she approached the grave. Oh, what a comfort it would have