Helene, who sat in front of the bed, gazed at her with vacant eyes.  They were wholly unable to drag her from that room.  For six-and-thirty hours she had lingered there, despite the prayers of Monsieur Rambaud and the Abbe Jouve, who kept watch with her.  During the last two nights she had been weighed to the earth by immeasurable agony.  Besides, she had accomplished the grievous task of dressing her daughter for the last time, of putting on those white silk shoes, for she would allow no other to touch the feet of the little angel who lay dead.  And now she sat motionless, as though her strength were spent, and the intensity of her grief had lulled her into forgetfulness.

“Have you got some flowers?” she exclaimed after an effort, her eyes still fixed on Madame Deberle.

“Yes, yes, my dear,” answered the latter.  “Don’t trouble yourself about that.”

Since her daughter had breathed her last, Helene had been consumed with one idea—­there must be flowers, flowers, an overwhelming profusion of flowers.  Each time she saw anybody, she grew uneasy, seemingly afraid that sufficient flowers would never be obtained.

“Are there any roses?” she began again after a pause.

“Yes.  I assure you that you will be well pleased.”

She shook her head, and once more fell back into her stupor.  In the meantime the undertaker’s men were waiting on the landing.  It must be got over now without delay.  Monsieur Rambaud, who was himself affected to such a degree that he staggered like a drunken man, signed to Juliette to assist him in leading the poor woman from the room.  Each slipped an arm gently beneath hers, and they raised her up and led her towards the dining-room.  But the moment she divined their intention, she shook them from her in a last despairing outburst.  The scene was heartrending.  She threw herself on her knees at the bedside and clung passionately to the sheets, while the room re-echoed with her piteous shrieks.  But still Jeanne lay there with her face of stone, stiff and icy-cold, wrapped round by the silence of eternity.  She seemed to be frowning; there was a sour pursing of the lips, eloquent of a revengeful nature; and it was this gloomy, pitiless look, springing from jealousy and transforming her face, which drove Helene so frantic.  During the preceding thirty-six hours she had not failed to notice how the old spiteful expression had grown more and more intense upon her daughter’s face, how more and more sullen she looked the nearer she approached the grave.  Oh, what a comfort it would have been if Jeanne could only have smiled on her for the last time!

“No, no!” she shrieked.  “I pray you, leave her for a moment.  You cannot take her from me.  I want to embrace her.  Oh, only a moment, only a moment!”

With trembling arms she clasped her child to her bosom, eager to dispute possession with the men who stood in the ante-room, with their backs turned towards her and impatient frowns on their faces.  But her lips were powerless to breathe any warmth on the cold countenance; she became conscious that Jeanne’s obstinacy was not to be overcome, that she refused forgiveness.  And then she allowed herself to be dragged away, and fell upon a chair in the dining-room, with the one mournful cry, again and again repeated:  “My God!  My God!”