Seeing it, Théroigne turned and beckoned to the man to come close. He approached from the door and stood behind her, away from the sleeper’s range of vision. The woman pointed down at the dreaming face.
“Dost thou still accuse it?”
“Awake—yes,” he said.
She frowned, and again bent to call into the girl’s ear.
“Nicette! where is thy brother Baptiste?”
A shadow, like that of a cloud that ruffles water, went over the quiet face. The regular breathing hitched and wavered; some broken soft ejaculations came from the lips. Suddenly the lids flickered—the eyes opened, unspeculative for a moment, then snatching the soul of them from unearthly sweet pastures, in whose fragrance it had lovelily nested. Still they were full of the glamour of holiday, remote in their vision, coy of things material.
“Théroigne!” she murmured, happy and confident, her half-recovered self only the core of a little atmosphere of the most loving warmth of emotion and feeling.
The woman bent and lifted the other—up, into her arms.
“Didst thou hear me call?” she said caressingly. “And what wert thou dreaming of, dearest?”
“Great God!” thought Ned, “is this Théroigne, in actual truth, a fiend!”