And, although the advocate had been gone at least a good ten minutes, M. de Commarin, not realising how the time had passed, hastened to the window, in the hope of seeing Noel in the court-yard, and calling him back.

But Noel was already far away.  On leaving the house, he took a cab and was quickly driven to the Rue St. Lazare.

On reaching his own door, he threw rather than gave five francs to the driver, and ran rapidly up the four flights of stairs.

“Who has called to see me?” he asked of the servant.

“No one, sir.”

He seemed relieved from a great anxiety, and continued in a calmer tone, “And the doctor?”

“He came this morning, sir,” replied the girl, “while you were out; and he did not seem at all hopeful.  He came again just now, and is still here.”

“Very well.  I will go and speak to him.  If any one calls, show them into my study, and let me know.”

On entering Madame Gerdy’s chamber, Noel saw at a glance that no change for the better had taken place during his absence.  With fixed eyes and convulsed features, the sick woman lay extended upon her back.  She seemed dead, save for the sudden starts, which shook her at intervals, and disarranged the bedclothes.

Above her head was placed a little vessel, filled with ice water, which fell drop by drop upon her forehead, covered with large bluish spots.  The table and mantel-piece were covered with little pots, medicine bottles, and half-emptied glasses.  At the foot of the bed, a piece of rag stained with blood showed that the doctor had just had recourse to leeches.

Near the fireplace, where was blazing a large fire, a nun of the order of St. Vincent de Paul was kneeling, watching a saucepan.  She was a young woman, with a face whiter than her cap.  Her immovably placid features, her mournful look, betokened the renunciation of the flesh, and the abdication of all independence of thought.

Her heavy grey costume hung about her in large ungraceful folds.  Every time she moved, her long chaplet of beads of coloured box-wood, loaded with crosses and copper medals, shook and trailed along the floor with a noise like a jingling of chains.

Dr. Herve was seated on a chair opposite the bed, watching, apparently with close attention, the nun’s preparations.  He jumped up as Noel entered.

“At last you are here,” he said, giving his friend a strong grasp of the hand.

“I was detained at the Palais,” said the advocate, as if he felt the necessity of explaining his absence; “and I have been, as you may well imagine, dreadfully anxious.”

He leant towards the doctor’s ear, and in a trembling voice asked:  “Well, is she at all better?”

The doctor shook his head with an air of deep discouragement.

“She is much worse,” he replied:  “since morning bad symptoms have succeeded each other with frightful rapidity.”