“Let me get on with my work,” she said in a whisper.  “I shall never have it finished.”

But just then an instinctive dread prompted her to turn round, and indeed there lay Jeanne, lowering upon them with deadly pale face and great inky-black eyes.  The child had not made the least movement; her chin was still buried in the downy pillow, which she clasped with her little arms.  She had only opened her eyes a moment before and was contemplating them.

“Jeanne, what’s the matter?” asked Helene.  “Are you ill? do you want anything?”

The little one made no reply, never stirred, did not even lower the lids of her great flashing eyes.  A sullen gloom was on her brow, and in her pallid cheeks were deep hollows.  She seemed about to throw back her hands as though a convulsion was imminent.  Helene started up, begging her to speak; but she remained obstinately stiff, darting such black looks on her mother that the latter’s face became purple with blushes, and she murmured: 

“Doctor, see; what is the matter with her?”

Henri had drawn his chair away from Helene’s.  He ventured near the bed, and was desirous of taking hold of one of the little hands which so fiercely gripped the pillow.  But as he touched Jeanne she trembled in every limb, turned with a start towards the wall, and exclaimed: 

“Leave me alone; you, I mean!  You are hurting me!”

She pulled the coverlet over her face, and for a quarter of an hour they attempted, without success, to soothe her with gentle words.  At last, as they still persevered, she sat up with her hands clasped in supplication:  “Oh, please leave me alone; you are tormenting me!  Leave me alone!”

Helene, in her bewilderment, once more sat down at the window, but Henri did not resume his place beside her.  They now understood:  Jeanne was devoured by jealousy.  They were unable to speak another word.  For a minute or two the doctor paced up and down in silence, and then slowly quitted the room, well understanding the meaning of the anxious glances which the mother was darting towards the bed.  As soon as he had gone, she ran to her daughter’s side and pressed her passionately to her breast, with a wild outburst of words.

“Hear me, my pet, I am alone now; look at me, speak to me.  Are you in pain?  Have I vexed you then?  Tell me everything!  Is it I whom you are angry with?  What are you troubled about?”

But it was useless to pray for an answer, useless to plead with all sorts of questions; Jeanne declared that she was quite well.  Then she started up with a frenzied cry:  “You don’t love me any more, mamma! you don’t love me any more!”

She burst into grievous sobbing, and wound her arms convulsively round her mother’s neck, raining greedy kisses on her face.  Helene’s heart was rent within her, she felt overwhelmed with unspeakable sadness, and strained her child to her bosom, mingling her tears with her own, and vowing to her that she would never love anybody save herself.