"No, no," said Jeanne-Marie, "no one is here but me."
"Because you know," Madelon went on, "I cannot see him yet—I cannot—it would not do to see him, you know, till—till—ah! you do not know about that——" She stopped suddenly, and Jeanne- Marie smoothed the pillow again with her rough, kindly hands.
"I know that you must go to sleep now, and that I shall not say a word more to you to-night," she said; and then, without heeding Madelon's further questions, she put out the light, and sat silently by the bedside till the child was once more asleep.
Madelon did not recover readily from this second attack. Even when she was pronounced wholly out of danger, there were the weariest days to be passed, relapses, weakness, languor. Flowers bloomed and faded in the garden below, the scent of the roses perfumed the air, the red-tipped vine-shoots growing upwards narrowed the space of blue sky seen through the little window, till the sun shone in softened by a screen of glowing green leaves; and all through these lengthening summer days our pale little Madelon lay on her sick bed, very still, and patient, and uncomplaining, and so gentle and grateful to Jeanne-Marie, who nursed and watched her unceasingly with her harsh tenderness, that a passionate affection seized the hard, lonely woman, for the forlorn little stranger who was so dependent upon her, and who owed everything to her compassion and care.
It was not long before a recollection of the past came back to Madelon, sufficiently clear, until the moment of her jumping out of the train at Le Trooz; after that she could remember nothing distinctly, only a general sense of misery, and pain, and terror. She asked Jeanne-Marie numberless questions, as to how and where she had found her, and what she had said.
"How did you know that I had run away from the convent?" she asked.
"You said so," answered Jeanne-Marie. "You were afraid that your aunt would come and take you back."
"Aunt Thérèse is dead," said Madelon. "I remember it all very well now. Did I tell you that? And did I tell you about papa, too? How strange that I should not remember having said so many things," she added, as the woman replied in the affirmative.
"Not at all strange," replied Jeanne-Marie. "People often talk like that when ill, and recollect nothing of it afterwards."
"Still, it is very odd," said Madelon, musing; and then she added, suddenly, "Did I talk of any one else?"