“Doctor, look at her, she is so feverish. Oh, tell me whether it is serious!”
Then, yielding to professional habit, despite the tempest raging in his brain, he mechanically felt Jeanne’s pulse. Nevertheless, so fierce was the struggle that he remained for a time motionless, seemingly unaware that he held this wasted little hand in his own.
“Is it a violent fever?” asked Hélène.
“A violent fever! Do you think so?” he repeated.
The little hand was scorching his own. There came another silence; the physician was awakening within him, and passion was dying from his eyes. His face slowly grew paler; he bent down uneasily, and examined Jeanne.
“You are right; this is a very severe attack,” he exclaimed. “My God! the poor child!”
His passion was now dead; he was solely consumed by a desire to be of service to her. His coolness at once returned; he sat down, and was questioning the mother respecting the child’s condition previous to this attack of illness, when Jeanne awoke, moaning loudly. She again complained of a terrible pain in the head. The pangs which were darting through her neck and shoulders had attained such intensity that her every movement wrung a sob from her. Hélène knelt on the other side of the bed, encouraging her, and smiling on her, though her heart almost broke at the sight of such agony.
“There’s some one there, isn’t there, mamma?” Jeanne asked, as she turned round and caught sight of the doctor.
“It is a friend, whom you know.”
The child looked at him for a time with thoughtful eyes, as if in doubt; but soon a wave of affection passed over her face. “Yes, yes, I know him; I love him very much.” And with her coaxing air she added: “You will have to cure me, won’t you, sir, to make mamma happy? Oh, I’ll be good; I’ll drink everything you give me.”