“Quicker! quicker!”

Monsieur Rambaud, his face red and bedewed with perspiration, exerted all his strength.  A cry rang out.  Helene went still higher.

“Oh, mamma!  Oh, mamma!” repeated Jeanne in her ecstasy.

She was sitting on the lawn gazing at her mother, her little hands clasped on her bosom, looking as though she herself had drunk in all the air that was stirring.  Her breath failed her; with a rythmical movement of the shoulders she kept time with the long strokes of the swing.  And she cried, “Quicker! quicker!” while her mother still went higher, her feet grazing the lofty branches of the trees.

“Higher, mamma! oh, higher, mamma!”

But Helene was already in the very heavens.  The trees bent and cracked as beneath a gale.  Her skirts, which were all they could see, flapped with a tempestuous sound.  When she came back with arms stretched out and bosom distended she lowered her head slightly and for a moment hovered; but then she rose again and sank backwards, her head tilted, her eyes closed, as though she had swooned.  These ascensions and descents which made her giddy were delightful.  In her flight she entered into the sunshine—­the pale yellow February sunshine that rained down like golden dust.  Her chestnut hair gleamed with amber tints; and a flame seemed to have leaped up around her, as the mauve bows on her whitening dress flashed like burning flowers.  Around her the springtide was maturing into birth, and the purple-tinted gems of the trees showed like delicate lacquer against the blue sky.

Jeanne clasped her hands.  Her mother seemed to her a saint with a golden glory round her head, winging her way to paradise, and she again stammered:  “Oh, mamma! oh! mamma!”

Madame Deberle and Malignon had now grown interested, and had stepped under the trees.  Malignon declared the lady to be very bold.

“I should faint, I’m sure,” said Madame Deberle, with a frightened air.

Helene heard them, for she dropped these words from among the branches:  “Oh, my heart is all right!  Give a stronger push, Monsieur Rambaud!”

And indeed her voice betrayed no emotion.  She seemed to take no heed of the two men who were onlookers.  They were doubtless nothing to her.  Her tress of hair had become entangled, and the cord that confined her skirts must have given way, for the drapery flapped in the wind like a flag.  She was going still higher.

All at once, however, the exclamation rang out: 

“Enough, Monsieur Rambaud, enough!”

Doctor Deberle had just appeared on the house steps.  He came forward, embraced his wife tenderly, took up Lucien and kissed his brow.  Then he gazed at Helene with a smile.

“Enough, enough!” she still continued exclaiming.

“Why?” asked he.  “Do I disturb you?”

She made no answer; a look of gravity had suddenly come over her face.  The swing, still continuing its rapid flights, owing to the impetus given to it, would not stop, but swayed to and fro with a regular motion which still bore Helene to a great height.  The doctor, surprised and charmed, beheld her with admiration; she looked so superb, so tall and strong, with the pure figure of an antique statue whilst swinging thus gently amid the spring sunshine.  But she seemed annoyed, and all at once leaped down.