Reflecting that I might possibly have to remain at Madame de Fersen's, and not wishing to have it known, I instructed my servant to take my carriage home, and tell my people that I had remained at Havre, and would return by the steamer. I entered the mansion. CHAPTER XXII IRENE The slightest details of this dreadful scene are still present to my mind. Midnight struck as I entered the antechamber of Madame de Fersen's apartment. It was dark, and I found none of her people about. This seemed to me very strange. Led by a dim light, I crossed several rooms, only one of which was faintly lighted; my heart shrank with terror. As I reached a half-open door, stifled sobs greeted my ear. Noiselessly I pushed the door open. Gracious heavens! what a picture! Irene's cot, placed next to her mother's bed, occupied the end of the room facing the door. Kneeling by the bedside, Catherine held one of the child's hands in hers. I could not see the face of the unfortunate mother, only from time to time a sudden, convulsive movement shook her frame. At the left side was Frank, the great painter, Hélène's husband. Seated on a low chair, he sketched Irene's dying countenance. A harrowing remembrance, which, no doubt, Madame de Fersen wished to preserve. Frank, by means of a shade, had so arranged the lamp that the full light fell on Irene's face. The rest of the apartment was plunged into almost total darkness. A tall man, in a fur-lined coat, stood at the foot of the cot. His hair was white; his prominent bald forehead shone like old ivory; a ray of bright light brought out his sharply marked profile. This was Doctor Ralph, Madame de Fersen's medical attendant. He seemed watching with an anxious eye the slightest change in Irene's face. In a dark corner of the room the nurse was seated, leaning her head against the wall, and scarcely able to smother her sobs. As I entered, her sobbing became so uncontrollable that, holding her handkerchief to her mouth, she left the room. I, also, was weeping bitterly at the sight of that angelic, childish face, so tender, so resigned, which, in spite of approaching death, preserved a character of sublime serenity. Brilliantly lighted, her pale face stood out vividly against the white pillows; her beautiful black locks fell in disorder, covering her forehead; her large eyes half closed, and encircled by dark rings, showed under the heavy lids her half-extinct pupils. From her pretty half-open mouth, from her lips, formerly so roseate, and now so discoloured, came forth a panting breath, and often a feeble plaintive murmur. This poor little face, formerly so plump, so fresh and childlike, was already becoming livid. From time to time the unhappy child moved her hands restlessly into space, or turned her head heavily on her pillows, with a deep sigh. Then she again became frightfully still. Frank's face, which I had not seen for two years, wore an expression of heart-breaking sadness.