He checked himself.  The advocate had seized his arm and was pressing it with all his might.  Madame Gerdy stirred a little, and a feeble groan escaped her.

“She heard you,” murmured Noel.

“I wish it were so,” said the doctor; “It would be most encouraging.  But I fear you are mistaken.  However, we will see.”  He went up to Madame Gerdy, and, whilst feeling her pulse, examined her carefully; then, with the tip of his finger, he lightly raised her eyelid.

The eye appeared dull, glassy, lifeless.

“Come, judge for yourself; take her hand, speak to her.”

Noel, trembling all over, did as his friend wished.  He drew near, and, leaning over the bed, so that his mouth almost touched the sick woman’s ear, he murmured:  “Mother, it is I, Noel, your own Noel.  Speak to me, make some sign, do you hear me, mother?”

It was in vain; she retained her frightful immobility.  Not a sign of intelligence crossed her features.

“You see,” said the doctor, “I told you the truth.”

“Poor woman!” sighed Noel, “does she suffer?”

“Not at present.”

The nun now rose; and she too came beside the bed.

“Doctor,” said she:  “all is ready.”

“Then call the servant, sister, to help us.  We are going to apply a mustard poultice.”

The servant hastened in.  In the arms of the two women, Madame Gerdy was like a corpse, whom they were dressing for the last time.  She was as rigid as though she were dead.  She must have suffered much and long, poor woman, for it was pitiable to see how thin she was.  The nun herself was affected, although she had become habituated to the sight of suffering.  How many invalids had breathed their last in her arms during the fifteen years that she had gone from pillow to pillow!

Noel, during this time, had retired into the window recess, and pressed his burning brow against the panes.

Of what was he thinking, while she who had given him so many proofs of maternal tenderness and devotion was dying a few paces from him?  Did he regret her? was he not thinking rather of the grand and magnificent existence which awaited him on the other side of the river, at the Faubourg St. Germain?  He turned abruptly round on hearing his friend’s voice.

“It is done,” said the doctor; “we have only now to wait the effect of the mustard.  If she feels it, it will be a good sign; if it has no effect, we will try cupping.”

“And if that does not succeed?”

The doctor answered only with a shrug of the shoulders, which showed his inability to do more.

“I understand your silence, Herve,” murmured Noel.  “Alas! you told me last night she was lost.”

“Scientifically, yes; but I do not yet despair.  It is hardly a year ago that the father-in-law of one of our comrades recovered from an almost identical attack; and I saw him when he was much worse than this; suppuration had set in.”