For a moment she lingered on the kitchen threshold, gazing at the bright fire. Then she instinctively opened the door of a cupboard, and promptly shut it again. Everything was in its place, chairs and tables alike; she found them all again, and their presence gave her pleasure. Zephyrin had, in the meantime, struggled respectfully to his feet. She nodded to him, smiling. “I didn’t know whether to put the roast on,” began the maid. “Why, what time is it?” asked Hélène. “Oh, it’s close on seven o’clock, madame.” “What! seven o’clock!” Astonishment riveted her to the floor; she had lost all consciousness of time, and seemed to awaken from a dream. “And where’s Jeanne?” she asked. “Oh! she has been very good, madame. I even think she must have fallen asleep, for I haven’t heard her for some time.” “Haven’t you given her a light?” Embarrassment closed Rosalie’s lips; she was unwilling to relate that Zephyrin had brought her some pictures which had engrossed her attention. Mademoiselle had never made the least stir, so she could scarcely have wanted anything. Hélène, however, paid no further heed to her, but ran into the room, where a dreadful chill fell upon her. “Jeanne! Jeanne!” she called. No answer broke the stillness. She stumbled against an arm-chair. From the dining-room, the door of which she had left ajar, some light streamed across a corner of the carpet. She felt a shiver come over her, and she could have declared that the rain was falling in the room, with its moist breath and continuous streaming. Then, on turning her head, she at once saw the pale square formed by the open window and the gloomy grey of the sky. “Who can have opened this window?” she cried. “Jeanne! Jeanne!” Still no answering word. A mortal terror fell on Hélène’s heart. She must look out of this window; but as she felt her way towards it, her hands lighted on a head of hair—it was Jeanne’s. And then, as Rosalie entered with a lamp, the child appeared with blanched face, sleeping with her cheek upon her crossed arms, while the big raindrops from the roof splashed upon her. Her breathing was scarcely perceptible, so overcome she was with despair and fatigue. Among the lashes of her large, bluey eyelids there were still two heavy tears. “The unhappy child!” stammered Hélène. “Oh, heavens! she’s icy cold! To fall asleep there, at such a time, when she had been expressly forbidden to touch the window! Jeanne, Jeanne, speak to me; wake up, Jeanne!” Rosalie had prudently vanished. The child, on being raised in her mother’s embrace, let her head drop as though she were unable to shake off the leaden slumber that had seized upon her. At last, however, she raised her eyelids; but the glare of the lamp dazzled her, and she remained benumbed and stupid. “Jeanne, it’s I! What’s wrong with you? See, I’ve just come back,” said Hélène. But the child seemingly failed to understand her; in her stupefaction she could only murmur: “Oh! Ah!”