limbs relaxed and became as supple as though she had just left a bath. The only sensation that remained to her was one of heaviness somewhere, an indefinable load that weighed upon her.
When she returned to her bedroom her eyes were at once directed towards the clock, the hands of which pointed to twenty-five minutes past twelve. Juliette's assignation was for three o'clock. Two hours and a half must still elapse. She made the reckoning mechanically. Moreover, she was in no hurry; the hands of the clock were moving on, and no one in the world could stop them. She left things to their own accomplishment. A child's cap, long since begun, was lying unfinished on the table. She took it up and began to sew at the window. The room was plunged in unbroken silence. Jeanne had seated herself in her usual place, but her arms hung idly beside her.
'Mamma,' she said, 'I cannot work; it's no fun at all.'
'Well, my darling, don't do anything. Oh! wait a minute, you can thread my needles!'
In a languid way the child silently attended to the duty assigned her. Having carefully cut some equal lengths of cotton, she spent a long time in finding the eyes of the needles, and was only just ready with one of them threaded when her mother had finished with the last.
'You see,' said the latter gently, 'this will save time. The last of my six little caps will be finished to- night.'
She turned round to glance at the clock-ten minutes past one. Still nearly two hours. Juliette must now be beginning to dress. Henri had received the letter. Oh! he would certainly go. The instructions were precise; he would find the place without delay. But it all seemed so far off still, and she felt no emotional fever, but went on sewing with regular stitches as industriously as a work-girl. The minutes slipped by one by one. At last two o'clock struck.
A ring at the bell came as a surprise.
'Who can it be, mother darling?' asked Jeanne, who had jumped on her chair. 'Oh! it's you!' she continued, as Monsieur Rambaud entered the room. 'Why did you ring so loudly? You gave me quite a fright.'
The worthy man was in consternation-to tell the truth, his tug at the bell had been a little too violent.
'I am not myself to-day, I'm ill,' the child resumed. 'You must not frighten me.'
Monsieur Rambaud displayed the greatest solicitude. What was the matter with his poor darling? He only sat down, relieved, when Helene had signed to him that the child was in her dismals, as Rosalie was wont to say. A call from him in the daytime was a rare occurrence, and so he at once set about explaining the object of his visit. It concerned some fellow-townsman of his, an old workman who could find no employment owing to his advanced years, and who lived with his paralytic wife in a tiny little room. Their wretchedness could not be pictured. He himself had gone up that morning to make a personal investigation. Their lodging was a mere hole under the tiles, with a swing window, through whose broken panes the wind beat in. Inside, stretched on a mattress, he had found a woman wrapped in an old curtain, while the man squatted on the floor in a state of stupefaction, no longer finding sufficient courage even to sweep the place.
'Oh! poor things, poor things!' exclaimed Helene, moved to tears.
It was not the old workman who gave Monsieur Rambaud any uneasiness. He would remove him to his own house and find him something to do. But there was the wife with palsied frame, whom the husband dared not leave for a moment alone, and who had to be rolled up like a bundle; where could she be put? what was to be done with her?
'I thought of you,' he went on. 'You must obtain her instant admission to an asylum. I should have gone straight to Monsieur Deberle, but I imagined you knew him better and would have greater influence with him. If he would be kind enough to interest himself in the matter, it could all be arranged to-morrow.'
Trembling with pity, her cheeks white, Jeanne listened to the tale.
'Oh, mamma!' she murmured with clasped hands, 'be kind-get the admission for the poor woman!'
'Yes, yes, of course!' said Helene, whose emotion was increasing. 'I will speak to the doctor as soon as I can; he will himself take every requisite step. Give me their names and the address, Monsieur Rambaud.'
He scribbled a line on the table, and said as he rose: 'It is thirty-five minutes past two. You would perhaps find the doctor at home now.'
She had risen at the same time, and as she looked at the clock a fierce thrill swept through her frame. In truth it was already thirty-five minutes past two, and the hands were still creeping on. She stammered out that the doctor must have started on his round of visits. Her eyes were riveted on the dial. Meantime, Monsieur Rambaud remained standing hat in hand, and beginning his story once more. These poor people had sold everything, even their stove, and since the setting in of winter had spent their days and nights alike without a fire. At the close of December they had been four days without food. Helene gave vent to a cry of compassion. The hands of the clock now marked twenty minutes to three. Monsieur Rambaud devoted another two minutes to his farewell: 'Well, I depend on you,' he said. And stooping to kiss Jeanne, he added: 'Good-bye, my darling.'
'Good-bye; don't worry; mamma won't forget. I'll make her remember.'
When Helene came back from the ante-room, whither she had gone in company with Monsieur Rambaud, the hands of the clock pointed to a quarter to three. Another quarter of an hour and all would be over. As she stood motionless before the fireplace, the scene which was about to be enacted flashed before her eyes: Juliette was already there; Henri entered and surprised her. She knew the room; she could see the scene in its minutest details with terrible vividness. And still affected by Monsieur Rambaud's awful story she felt a mighty shudder rise from her limbs to her face. A voice cried out within her that what she had done-the writing of that letter, that cowardly denunciation-was a crime. The truth came to her with dazzling clearness. Yes, it was a crime she had committed! She recalled to memory the gesture with which she had flung the letter into the box; she recalled it with a sense of stupor such as might come over one on seeing another commit an evil action, without thought of intervening. She was as if awaking from a dream. What was it that had happened? Why was she here, with eyes ever fixed on the hands of that dial? Two more minutes had slipped away.
'Mamma,' said Jeanne, 'if you like, we'll go to see the doctor together to-night. It will be a walk for me. I feel stifling to-day.'
Helene, however, did not hear; thirteen minutes must yet elapse. But she could not allow so horrible a thing to take place! In this stormy awakening of her rectitude she felt naught but a furious craving to prevent it. She must prevent it; otherwise she would be unable to live. In a state of frenzy she ran about her bedroom.
'Ah, you're going to take me!' exclaimed Jeanne joyously. 'We're going to see the doctor at once, aren't we, mother darling?'
'No, no,' Helene answered, while she hunted for her boots, stooping to look under the bed.
They were not to be found; but she shrugged her shoulders with supreme indifference when it occurred to her that she could very well run out in the flimsy house-slippers she had on her feet. She was now turning the wardrobe topsy-turvy in her search for her shawl. Jeanne crept up to her with a coaxing air: 'Then you're not going to the doctor's, mother darling?'
'No.'
'Say that you'll take me all the same. Oh! do take me; it will be such a pleasure!'
But Helene had at last found her shawl, and she threw it over her shoulders. Good heavens! only twelve minutes left-just time to run. She would go-she would do something, no matter what. She would decide on the way.
'Mamma dear, do please take me with you,' said Jeanne in tones that grew lower and more imploring.
'I cannot take you,' said Helene; 'I'm going to a place where children don't go. Give me my bonnet.'
Jeanne's face blanched. Her eyes grew dim, her words came with a gasp. 'Where are you going?' she asked.
The mother made no reply-she was tying the strings of her bonnet.
Then the child continued: 'You always go out without me now. You went out yesterday, you went out to-day, and you are going out again. Oh, I'm dreadfully grieved, I'm afraid to be here all alone. I shall die if you leave me here. Do you hear, mother darling? I shall die.'
Then bursting into loud sobs, overwhelmed by a fit of grief and rage, she clung fast to Helene's skirts.
'Come, come, leave me; be good, I'm coming back,' her mother repeated.
'No, no! I won't have it!' the child exclaimed through her sobs. 'Oh! you don't love me any longer, or you would take me with you. Yes, yes, I am sure you love other people better. Take me with you, take me with you, or I'll stay here on the floor; you'll come back and find me on the floor.'
She wound her little arms round her mother's legs; she wept with face buried in the folds of her dress; she
