Sheaves of flame were also ever rising afresh from the adjacent districts, where the streets opened, now dark and now all ablaze. Even far over the plain, from a ruddy ember-like glow suffusing the destroyed faubourgs, occasional flashes of flame shot up as from some fire struggling again into life. Ere long a furnace seemed raging, all Paris burned, the heavens became yet more empurpled, and the clouds hung like so much blood over the vast city, colored red and gold. With the ruddy tints falling upon her, yielding to the passion which was devouring her, Hélène was still gazing upon Paris all ablaze, when a little hand was placed on her shoulder, and she gave a start. It was Jeanne, calling her. “Mamma! mamma!” She turned her head, and the child went on: “At last! Didn’t you hear me before? I have called you at least a dozen times.” The little girl, still in her Japanese costume, had sparkling eyes, and cheeks flushed with pleasure. She gave her mother no time for answer. “You ran away from me nicely! Do you know, they were hunting for you everywhere? Had it not been for Pauline, who came with me to the bottom of the staircase, I shouldn’t have dared to cross the road.” With a pretty gesture, she brought her face close to her mother’s lips, and, without pausing, whispered the question: “Do you love me?” Hélène kissed her somewhat absently. She was amazed and impatient at her early return. Had an hour really gone by since she had fled from the ball-room? However, to satisfy the child, who seemed uneasy, she told her that she had felt rather unwell. The fresh air was doing her good; she only needed a little quietness. “Oh! don’t fear; I’m too tired,” murmured Jeanne. “I am going to stop here, and be very, very good. But, mamma dear, I may talk, mayn’t I?” She nestled close to Hélène, full of joy at the prospect of not being undressed at once. She was in ecstasies over her embroidered purple gown and green silk petticoat; and she shook her head to rattle the pendants hanging from the long pins thrust through her hair. At last there burst from her lips a rush of hasty words. Despite her seeming demureness, she had seen everything, heard everything, and remembered everything; and she now made ample amends for her former assumed dignity, silence, and indifference. “Do you know, mamma, it was an old fellow with a grey beard who made Punch move his arms and legs? I saw him well enough when the curtain was drawn aside. Yes, and the little boy Guiraud began to cry. How stupid of him, wasn’t it? They told him the policeman would come and put some water in his soup; and at last they had to carry him off, for he wouldn’t stop crying. And at lunch, too, Marguerite stained her milkmaid’s dress all over with jam. Her mamma wiped it off and said to her: ‘Oh, you dirty girl!’ She even had a lot of it in her hair. I never opened my mouth, but it did amuse me to see them all rush at the cakes! Were they not bad-mannered, mamma dear?”