Above her head was placed a little vessel, filled with ice water, which fell drop by drop upon her forehead, covered with large bluish spots. The table and mantel-piece were covered with little pots, medicine bottles, and half-emptied glasses. At the foot of the bed, a piece of rag stained with blood showed that the doctor had just had recourse to leeches. Near the fireplace, where was blazing a large fire, a nun of the order of St. Vincent de Paul was kneeling, watching a saucepan. She was a young woman, with a face whiter than her cap. Her immovably placid features, her mournful look, betokened the renunciation of the flesh, and the abdication of all independence of thought. Her heavy grey costume hung about her in large ungraceful folds. Every time she moved, her long chaplet of beads of coloured box-wood, loaded with crosses and copper medals, shook and trailed along the floor with a noise like a jingling of chains. Dr. Herve was seated on a chair opposite the bed, watching, apparently with close attention, the nun’s preparations. He jumped up as Noel entered. “At last you are here,” he said, giving his friend a strong grasp of the hand. “I was detained at the Palais,” said the advocate, as if he felt the necessity of explaining his absence; “and I have been, as you may well imagine, dreadfully anxious.” He leant towards the doctor’s ear, and in a trembling voice asked: “Well, is she at all better?” The doctor shook his head with an air of deep discouragement. “She is much worse,” he replied: “since morning bad symptoms have succeeded each other with frightful rapidity.” He checked himself. The advocate had seized his arm and was pressing it with all his might. Madame Gerdy stirred a little, and a feeble groan escaped her. “She heard you,” murmured Noel. “I wish it were so,” said the doctor; “It would be most encouraging. But I fear you are mistaken. However, we will see.” He went up to Madame Gerdy, and, whilst feeling her pulse, examined her carefully; then, with the tip of his finger, he lightly raised her eyelid. The eye appeared dull, glassy, lifeless. “Come, judge for yourself; take her hand, speak to her.” Noel, trembling all over, did as his friend wished. He drew near, and, leaning over the bed, so that his mouth almost touched the sick woman’s ear, he murmured: “Mother, it is I, Noel, your own Noel. Speak to me, make some sign, do you hear me, mother?” It was in vain; she retained her frightful immobility. Not a sign of intelligence crossed her features. “You see,” said the doctor, “I told you the truth.” “Poor woman!” sighed Noel, “does she suffer?” “Not at present.” The nun now rose; and she too came beside the bed. “Doctor,” said she: “all is ready.” “Then call the servant, sister, to help us. We are going to apply a mustard poultice.”