The maid hesitated, but Helene, who had heard, nodded to her in token of consent.  The child spoke again: 

“Bring him; come both of you; I shall be so pleased.”

When Rosalie entered the sick-room with Zephyrin, she raised herself on her pillow.  The little soldier, with bare head and hands spread out, swayed about to hide his intense emotion.  He had a great love for mademoiselle, and it grieved him unutterably to see her “shouldering arms on the left,” as he expressed it in the kitchen.  So, in spite of the previous injunctions of Rosalie, who had instructed him to put on a bright expression, he stood speechless, with downcast face, on seeing her so pale and wasted to a skeleton.  He was still as tender-hearted as ever, despite his conquering airs.  He could not even think of one of those fine phrases which nowadays he usually concocted so easily.  The maid behind him gave him a pinch to make him laugh.  But he could only stammer out: 

“I beg pardon—­mademoiselle and every one here—­”

Jeanne was still raising herself with the help of her tiny arms.  She widely opened her large, vacant eyes; she seemed to be looking for something; her head shook with a nervous trembling.  Doubtless the stream of light was blinding her as the shadows of death gathered around.

“Come closer, my friend,” said Helene to the soldier.  “It was mademoiselle who asked to see you.”

The sunshine entered through the window in a slanting ray of golden light, in which the dust rising from the carpet could be seen circling.  March had come, and the springtide was already budding out of doors.  Zephyrin took one step forward, and appeared in the sunshine; his little round, freckled face had a golden hue, as of ripe corn, while the buttons on his tunic glittered, and his red trousers looked as sanguineous as a field of poppies.  At last Jeanne became aware of his presence there; but her eye again betrayed uneasiness, and she glanced restlessly from one corner to another.

“What do you want, my child?” asked her mother.  “We are all here.”  She understood, however, in a moment.  “Rosalie, come nearer.  Mademoiselle wishes to see you.”

Then Rosalie, in her turn, stepped into the sunlight.  She wore a cap, whose strings, carelessly tossed over her shoulders, flapped round her head like the wings of a butterfly.  A golden powder seemed to fall on her bristly black hair and her kindly face with its flat nose and thick lips.  And for Jeanne there were only these two in the room—­the little soldier and the servant girl, standing elbow to elbow under the ray of sunshine.  She gazed at them.

“Well, my darling,” began Helene again, “you do not say anything to them!  Here they are together.”

Jeanne’s eyes were still fixed on them, and her head shook with the tremor of a very aged woman.  They stood there like man and wife, ready to take each other’s arm and return to their country-side.  The spring sun threw its warmth on them, and eager to brighten mademoiselle they ended by smiling into each other’s face with a look of mingled embarrassment and tenderness.  The very odor of health was exhaled from their plump round figures.  Had they been alone, Zephyrin without doubt would have caught hold of Rosalie, and would have received for his pains a hearty slap.  Their eyes showed it.