Occasionally she consulted a pocket-mirror, then resumed the combing, humming to herself. Barabant, his forehead enveloped in white, his arm in a sling, lay with his head turned toward her, one arm escaping bare above the covers. She regarded approvingly the lithe muscles suggested under the soft skin, and, ceasing her humming, pronounced: "He is well made!" She leaned over the bed and opened the collar of his shirt, revealing the full throat. "Tiens, he's as white as a woman." She withdrew, and resumed her humming. "But, Dieu merci, it's not a woman." She was taking up another strand when the stairs cried out and Louison entered. Nicole frowned and said curtly: "Ah, it's you, is it? Who told you?" "La Mère Corniche. How goes it?" she asked, indicating Barabant. "Well." "Are you coming to eat something?" "No, I'm staying here." "Is it so serious?" "I don't know," she said, continuing her combing. "He pleases me." Louison stood at the bed, looking down. "Not bad; he's interesting. I noticed he had good eyes." Nicole stopped her combing, and a frown gathered above the childish cheeks, as she cried impetuously: "Louison, no interference, do you hear? Or--" "Or what?" The dark eyebrows arched slightly, but the deep eyes remained cold. Nicole did not answer. Louison returned to the contemplation of the young man a moment longer, then reluctantly rousing herself from her reverie, turned on her heel. Her eye, falling on Nicole, regarded her with a trace of amusement. "Child!" she said, standing in the doorway, her face relaxing into a smile. "You have chosen the best moment, my dear: you are adorable!" Nicole listened, immovable, until the last footstep had grown silent. Then drawing her lips together, she seized her knees with her hands, and thus curbed, her eyes fixed themselves in intense contemplation, while several times a sudden anger knit her features before she shook off the disagreeable emotions and sought the cool of the window. At a rustling from the bed she returned quickly. Barabant had stirred slightly, but so as to throw his weight upon the wounded arm. She slipped her arm under him and moved him to a more comfortable position. This maternal solicitude, slight as it was, awakened a new emotion in her. She arranged his hair, and seeking hungrily for any further service, began to bathe the hot eyelids. Barabant, under the gentle stroking, opened his eyes. The confines appeared to him vast and silent, the window far removed and small. The long August twilight invaded the room with the delicious promise of a quieter night, while from without the distant, scattered sounds of rejoicing reached his ears, through the corridors of insensibility, like the tinkle of soft music. He sighed contentedly and closed his eyes again. Presently he said, turning his head a trifle, but without opening his eyes: "Thou art really there, Nicole?"