“Look at me, mamma; look at my hands, and my neck, and my ears.  Oh! you must let me warm myself; I am so comfortable.  You don’t say anything; surely I’ve deserved my breakfast to-day.”

She had curled herself up before the fire in her own little easy-chair.  Then Rosalie poured out the coffee and milk.  Jeanne took her bowl on her lap, and gravely soaked her toast in its contents with all the airs of a grown-up person.  Helene had always forbidden her to eat in this way, but that morning she remained plunged in thought.  She did not touch her own bread, and was satisfied with drinking her coffee.  Then Jeanne, after swallowing her last morsel, was stung with remorse.  Her heart filled, she put aside her bowl, and gazing on her mother’s pale face, threw herself on her neck:  “Mamma, are you ill now?  I haven’t vexed you, have I?—­say.”

“No, no, my darling, quite the contrary; you’re very good,” murmured Helene as she embraced her.  “I’m only a little wearied; I haven’t slept well.  Go on playing:  don’t be uneasy.”

The thought occurred to her that the day would prove a terribly long one.  What could she do whilst waiting for the night?  For some time past she had abandoned her needlework; sewing had become a terrible weariness.  For hours she lingered in her seat with idle hands, almost suffocating in her room, and craving to go out into the open air for breath, yet never stirring.  It was this room which made her ill; she hated it, in angry exasperation over the two years which she had spent within its walls; its blue velvet and the vast panorama of the mighty city disgusted her, and her thoughts dwelt on a lodging in some busy street, the uproar of which would have deafened her.  Good heavens! how long were the hours!  She took up a book, but the fixed idea that engrossed her mind continually conjured up the same visions between her eyes and the page of print.

In the meantime Rosalie had been busy setting the room in order; Jeanne’s hair also had been brushed, and she was dressed.  While her mother sat at the window, striving to read, the child, who was in one of her moods of obstreperous gaiety, began playing a grand game.  She was all alone; but this gave her no discomfort; she herself represented three or four persons in turn with comical earnestness and gravity.  At first she played the lady going on a visit.  She vanished into the dining-room, and returned bowing and smiling, her head nodding this way and that in the most coquettish style.

“Good-day, madame!  How are you, madame?  How long it is since I’ve seen you!  A marvellously long time, to be sure!  Dear me, I’ve been so ill, madame!  Yes; I’ve had the cholera; it’s very disagreeable.  Oh! it doesn’t show; no, no, it makes you look younger, on my word of honor.  And your children, madame?  Oh!  I’ve had three since last summer!”

So she rattled on, never ceasing her curtseying to the round table, which doubtless represented the lady she was visiting.  Next she ventured to bring the chairs closer together, and for an hour carried on a general conversation, her talk abounding in extraordinary phrases.