Hélène withdrew her hand. He stepped back, but, with his gaze still fixed on her, continued: “Don’t be afraid; I love you. I would have waited at the door had you not opened it. Oh! I know very well it is simple madness, but I love you, I love you all the same!” Her face was grave as she listened, eloquent with a dumb reproach which tortured him, and impelled him to pour forth his passionate love. But Hélène still remained standing, wholly unmoved. At last she spoke. “You know nothing, then?” asked she. He had taken her hand, and was raising it to his lips, when she started back with a gesture of impatience. “Oh! leave me!” she exclaimed. “You see that I am not even listening to you. I have something far different to think about!” Then becoming more composed, she put her question to him a second time. “You know nothing? Well, my daughter is ill. I am pleased to see you; you will dispel my fears.” She took up the lamp and walked on before him, but as they were passing through the doorway, she turned, and looking at him, said firmly: “I forbid you beginning again here. Oh! you must not!” He entered behind her, scarcely understanding what had been enjoined on him. His temples throbbed convulsively, as he leaned over the child’s little crib. “She is asleep; look at her,” said Hélène in a whisper. He did not hear her; his passion would not be silenced. She was hanging over the bed in front of him, and he could see her rosy neck, with its wavy hair. He shut his eyes that he might escape the temptation of kissing her, as she said to him: “Doctor, look at her, she is so feverish. Oh, tell me whether it is serious!” Then, yielding to professional habit, despite the tempest raging in his brain, he mechanically felt Jeanne’s pulse. Nevertheless, so fierce was the struggle that he remained for a time motionless, seemingly unaware that he held this wasted little hand in his own. “Is it a violent fever?” asked Hélène. “A violent fever! Do you think so?” he repeated. The little hand was scorching his own. There came another silence; the physician was awakening within him, and passion was dying from his eyes. His face slowly grew paler; he bent down uneasily, and examined Jeanne. “You are right; this is a very severe attack,” he exclaimed. “My God! the poor child!” His passion was now dead; he was solely consumed by a desire to be of service to her. His coolness at once returned; he sat down, and was questioning the mother respecting the child’s condition previous to this attack of illness, when Jeanne awoke, moaning loudly. She again complained of a terrible pain in the head. The pangs which were darting through her neck and shoulders had attained such intensity that her every movement wrung a sob from her. Hélène knelt on the other side of the bed, encouraging her, and smiling on her, though her heart almost broke at the sight of such agony.