She had repulsed the doctor and thrown herself on the ground, leaning against the bed to gaze into her daughter’s face. Jeanne opened her eyes, but did not look at her mother. She drew her doll—her last love—still closer. Her bosom heaved with a big sigh, followed by two fainter ones. Then her eyes paled, and her face for a moment gave signs of a fearful anguish. But speedily there came relief; her mouth remained open, she breathed no more. “It is over,” said the doctor, as he took her hand. Jeanne’s big, vacant eyes were fixed on Paris. The long, thin, lamb-like face was still further elongated, there was a sternness on its features, a grey shadow falling from its contracted brows. Thus even in death she retained the livid expression of a jealous woman. The doll, with its head flung back, and its hair dishevelled, seemed to lie dead beside her. “It is over,” again said the doctor, as he allowed the little cold hand to drop. Hélène, with a strained expression on her face, pressed her hands to her brow as if she felt her head splitting open. No tears came to her eyes; she gazed wildly in front of her. Then a rattling noise mounted in her throat; she had just espied at the foot of the bed a pair of shoes that lay forgotten there. It was all over. Jeanne would never put them on again; the little shoes could be given to the poor. And at the sight Hélène’s tears gushed forth; she still knelt on the floor, her face pressed against the dead child’s hand, which had slipped down. Monsieur Rambaud was sobbing. The Abbé had raised his voice, and Rosalie, standing at the door of the dining-room, was biting her handkerchief to check the noise of her grief. At this very moment Doctor Deberle rang the bell. He was unable to refrain from making inquiries. “How is she now?” he asked. “Oh, sir!” wailed Rosalie, “she is dead.” He stood motionless, stupefied by the announcement of the end which he had been expecting daily. At last he muttered: “O God! the poor child! what a calamity!” He could only give utterance to those commonplace but heartrending words. The door shut once more, and he went down the stairs. CHAPTER XXIV. When Madame Deberle was apprised of Jeanne’s death she wept, and gave way to one of those outbursts of emotion that kept her in a flutter for eight-and-forty hours. Hers was a noisy and immoderate grief. She came and threw herself into Hélène’s arms. Then a phrase dropped in her hearing inspired her with the idea of imparting some affecting surroundings to the child’s funeral, and soon wholly absorbed her. She offered her services, and declared her willingness to undertake every detail. The mother, worn out with weeping, sat overwhelmed in her chair; Monsieur Rambaud, who was acting in her name, was losing his head. So he accepted the offer with profuse expressions of gratitude. Hélène merely roused herself for a moment to express the wish that there should be some flowers—an abundance of flowers.