stupefied on the footway; she knew no other doctor in Passy.  For a few moments she rushed about the streets, gazing at the houses.  A slight but keen wind was blowing, and she was walking in slippers through the light snow that had fallen during the evening.  Ever before her was her daughter, with the agonizing thought that she was killing her by not finding a doctor at once.  Then, as she retraced her steps along the Rue Vineuse, she rang the bell of another house.  She would inquire, at all events; some one would perhaps direct her.  She gave a second tug at the bell; but no one seemed to come.  The wind meanwhile played with her petticoat, making it cling to her legs, and tossed her dishevelled hair.

At last a servant answered her summons.  “Doctor Deberle was in bed asleep.”  It was a doctor’s house at which she had rung, so Heaven had not abandoned her!  Straightway, intent upon entering, she pushed the servant aside, still repeating her prayer: 

“My child, my child is dying!  Oh, tell him he must come!”

The house was small and seemed full of hangings.  She reached the first floor, despite the servant’s opposition, always answering his protest with the words, “My child is dying!” In the apartment she entered she would have been content to wait; but the moment she heard the doctor stirring in the next room she drew near and appealed to him through the doorway: 

“Oh, sir, come at once, I beseech you.  My child is dying!”

When the doctor at last appeared in a short coat and without a neckcloth, she dragged him away without allowing him to finish dressing.  He at once recognized her as a resident in the next-door house, and one of his own tenants; so when he induced her to cross a garden—­to shorten the way by using a side-door between the two houses —­memory suddenly awoke within her.

“True, you are a doctor!” she murmured, “and I knew it.  But I was distracted.  Oh, let us hurry!”

On the staircase she wished him to go first.  She could not have admitted the Divinity to her home in a more reverent manner.  Upstairs Rosalie had remained near the child, and had lit the large lamp on the table.  After the doctor had entered the room he took up this lamp and cast its light upon the body of the child, which retained its painful rigidity; the head, however, had slipped forward, and nervous twitchings were ceaselessly drawing the face.  For a minute he looked on in silence, his lips compressed.  Helene anxiously watched him, and on noticing the mother’s imploring glance, he muttered:  “It will be nothing.  But she must not lie here.  She must have air.”

Helene grasped her child in a strong embrace, and carried her away on her shoulder.  She could have kissed the doctor’s hand for his good tidings, and a wave of happiness rippled through her.  Scarcely, however, had Jeanne been placed in the larger bed than her poor little frame was again seized with violent convulsions.  The doctor had removed the shade from the lamp, and a white light was streaming through the room.  Then, opening a window, he ordered Rosalie to drag the bed away from the curtains.  Helene’s heart was again filled with anguish.  “Oh, sir, she is dying,” she stammered.  “Look! look!  Ah!  I scarcely recognize her.”