She sat up and laughingly fumbled in his pockets, where goodies were always secreted. Then she embraced him, playing quite a love comedy, while her revenge found satisfaction in the anguish which she imagined she could read on her mother’s pallid face. Monsieur Rambaud beamed with joy over his restoration to his little sweetheart’s good graces. But Hélène, on meeting him in the ante-room, was usually able to acquaint him with the state of affairs, and all at once he would look at the draught standing on the table and exclaim: “What! are you having syrup?” Jeanne’s face clouded over, and, in a low voice, she replied: “No, no, it’s nasty, it’s nauseous; I can’t take it.” “What! you can’t drink this?” questioned Monsieur Rambaud gaily. “I can wager it’s very good. May I take a little of it?” Then without awaiting her permission he poured out a large spoonful, and swallowed it with a grimace that seemed to betoken immeasurable satisfaction. “How delicious!” he murmured. “You are quite wrong; see, just take a little to try.” Jeanne, amused, then made no further resistance. She would drink whatever Monsieur Rambaud happened to taste. She watched his every motion greedily, and appeared to study his features with a view to observing the effects of the medicine. The good man for a month gorged himself in this way with drugs, and, on Hélène gratefully thanking him, merely shrugged his shoulders. “Oh! it’s very good stuff!” he declared, with perfect conviction, making it his pleasure to share the little one’s medicines. He passed his evenings at her bedside. The Abbé, on the other hand, came regularly every second day. Jeanne retained them with her as long as possible, and displayed vexation when she saw them take up their hats. Her immediate dread lay in being left alone with her mother and the doctor, and she would fain have always had company in the room to keep these two apart. Frequently, without reason, she called Rosalie to her. When they were alone with her, her eyes never quitted them, but pursued them into every corner of the bedroom. Whenever their hands came together, her face grew ashy white. If a whispered word was exchanged between them, she started up in anger, demanding to know what had been said. It was a grievance to her that her mother’s gown should sweep against the doctor’s foot. They could not approach or look at one another without the child falling immediately into violent trembling. The extreme sensitiveness of her innocent little being induced in her an exasperation which would suddenly prompt her to turn round, should she guess that they were smiling at one another behind her. She could divine the times when their love was at its height by the atmosphere wafted around her. It was then that her gloom became deeper, and her agonies were those of nervous women at the approach of a terrible storm.