“No, no!” cried Helene; “leave the window open.  Should it not be so?” she appealed to the doctor.

The wind entered in slight puffs, rustling the curtains to and fro; but she was quite unconscious of it.  Yet the shawl had slipped off her shoulders, and her hair had become unwound, some wanton tresses sweeping down to her hips.  She had left her arms free and uncovered, that she might be the more ready; she had forgotten all, absorbed entirely in her love for her child.  And on his side, the doctor, busy with his work, no longer thought of his unbuttoned coat, or of the shirt-collar that Jeanne’s clutch had torn away.

“Raise her up a little,” said he to Helene.  “No, no, not in that way!  Give me your hand.”

He took her hand and placed it under the child’s head.  He wished to give Jeanne another spoonful of the medicine.  Then he called Helene close to him, made use of her as his assistant; and she obeyed him reverently on seeing that her daughter was already more calm.

“Now, come,” he said.  “You must let her head lean against your shoulder, while I listen.”

Helene did as he bade her, and he bent over her to place his ear against Jeanne’s bosom.  He touched her bare shoulder with his cheek, and as the pulsation of the child’s heart struck his ear he could also have heard the throbbing of the mother’s breast.  As he rose up his breath mingled with Helene’s.

“There is nothing wrong there,” was the quiet remark that filled her with delight.  “Lay her down again.  We must not worry her more.”

However, another, though much less violent, paroxysm followed.  From Jeanne’s lips burst some broken words.  At short intervals two fresh attacks seemed about to convulse her, and then a great prostration, which again appeared to alarm the doctor, fell on the child.  He had placed her so that her head lay high, with the clothes carefully tucked under her chin; and for nearly an hour he remained there watching her, as though awaiting the return of a healthy respiration.  On the other side of the bed Helene also waited, never moving a limb.

Little by little a great calm settled on Jeanne’s face.  The lamp cast a sunny light upon it, and it regained its exquisite though somewhat lengthy oval.  Jeanne’s fine eyes, now closed, had large, bluish, transparent lids, which veiled—­one could divine it—­a sombre, flashing glance.  A light breathing came from her slender nose, while round her somewhat large mouth played a vague smile.  She slept thus, amidst her outspread tresses, which were inky black.

“It has all passed away now,” said the doctor in a whisper; and he turned to arrange his medicine bottles prior to leaving.

“Oh, sir!” exclaimed Helene, approaching him, “don’t leave me yet; wait a few minutes.  Another fit might come on, and you, you alone, have saved her!”

He signed to her that there was nothing to fear; yet he tarried, with the idea of tranquillizing her.  She had already sent Rosalie to bed; and now the dawn soon broke, still and grey, over the snow which whitened the housetops.  The doctor proceeded to close the window, and in the deep quiet the two exchanged a few whispers.