Helene’s continued silence was beginning to vex Jeanne.  She nestled closer, and gave her mother’s hand a shake.  But, perceiving that she drew only a few words from her, she herself, by degrees, lapsed into silence, into thought of the incidents of that ball of which her heart was full.  Both mother and daughter now sat mutely gazing on Paris all aflame.  It seemed to them yet more mysterious than ever, as it lay there illumined by blood-red clouds, like some city of an old-world tale expiating its lusts under a rain of fire.

“Did you have any round dances?” all at once asked Helene, as if wakening with a start.

“Yes, yes!” murmured Jeanne, engrossed in her turn.

“And the doctor—­did he dance!”

“I should think so; he had a turn with me.  He lift me up and asked me:  ‘Where is your mamma? where is your mamma?’ and then he kissed me.”

Helene unconsciously smiled.  What need had she of knowing Henri well?  It appeared sweeter to her not to know him—­ay, never to know him well —­and to greet him simply as the one whose coming she had awaited so long.  Why should she feel astonished or disquieted?  At the fated hour he had met her on her life-journey.  Her frank nature accepted whatever might be in store; and quietude, born of the knowledge that she loved and was beloved, fell on her mind.  She told her heart that she would prove strong enough to prevent her happiness from being marred.

But night was coming on and a chilly breeze arose.  Jeanne, still plunged in reverie, began to shiver.  She reclined her head on her mother’s bosom, and, as though the question were inseparably connected with her deep meditation, she murmured a second time:  “Do you love me?”

Then Helene, her face still glad with smiles, took her head within her hands and for a moment examined her face closely.  Next she pressed a long kiss near her mouth, over a ruddy spot on her skin.  It was there, she could divine it, that Henri had kissed the child!

The gloomy ridge of the Meudon hills was already partially concealing the disc of the sun.  Over Paris the slanting beams of light had yet lengthened.  The shadow cast by the dome of the Invalides—­increased to stupendous proportions—­covered the whole of the Saint-Germain district; while the Opera-House, the Saint-Jacques tower, the columns and the steeples, threw streaks of darkness over the right bank dwellings.  The lines of house-fronts, the yawning streets, the islands of roofs, were burning with a more sullen glow.  The flashes of fire died away in the darkening windows, as though the houses were reduced to embers.  Distant bells rang out; a rumbling noise fell on the ears, and then subsided.  With the approach of night the expanse of sky grew more vast, spreading a vault of violet, streaked with gold and purple, above the ruddy city.  But all at once the conflagration flared afresh with formidable intensity, a last great flame shot up from Paris, illumining its entire expanse, and even its hitherto hidden suburbs.  Then it seemed as if a grey, ashy dust were falling; and though the clustering districts remained erect, they wore the gloomy, unsubstantial aspect of coals which had ceased to burn.