Half expecting this, I wait an instant, and feel as if I were kneeling beside my own grave. But the fantastic little figure I love so well gives no sign of movement. My alarm increases. I get up, hastily push back one of the sliding paper panels, and let in a flood of sunlight from the garden.
It streams full on Mousmé’s face; it searches out the gold threads in the embroidery of her gown; it tells me in an instant that there is something seriously wrong.
There are no bells in this strange little house of mine, so I beat upon the floor with my heel to summon Oka or his wife.
I wait anxiously, kneeling beside silent little Mousmé. Each second seems to extend itself into an hour. How long it seems—that minute or two ere I can hear some one ascending the rickety stairs from the basement. It is Oka’s wife who enters, her eyes still but half unfastened from an interrupted siesta.
She comes forward to where I am kneeling beside Mousmé.
Unlike women of her class in England, Oka’s wife is laconic.
“Fever,” she says, on catching sight of Mousmé’s face. “Send for the doctor very quick!” She is evidently waiting for me to give my assent to her suggestion, so I nod my head, and she goes away softly across the room.
A few minutes later I hear one of her numerous progeny go away down the path at a run, and I know the doctor has been sent for.
Mousmé remains unconscious all the time that we are getting her partially undressed and on to the mattress.
Am I to lose her?