“I assure you she is much better,” said the doctor. “In a fortnight she will be able to go down to the garden.”
Hélène went on stitching quickly.
“Yesterday she was again very sad,” she murmured, “but this morning she was laughing and happy. She has given me her promise to be good.”
A long silence followed. The child was still plunged in sleep, and their souls were enveloped in a profound peace. When she slumbered thus, their relief was intense; they seemed to share each other’s hearts the more.
“Have you not seen the garden yet?” asked Henri. “Just now it’s full of flowers.”
“The asters are out, aren’t they?” she questioned.
“Yes; the flower-bed looks magnificent. The clematises have wound their way up into the elms. It is quite a nest of foliage.”
There was another silence. Hélène ceased sewing, and gave him a smile. To their fancy it seemed as though they were strolling together along high-banked paths, dim with shadows, amidst which fell a shower of roses. As he hung over her he drank in the faint perfume of vervain that arose from her dressing-gown. However, all at once a rustling of the sheets disturbed them.
“She is wakening!” exclaimed Hélène, as she started up.
Henri drew himself away, and simultaneously threw a glance towards the bed. Jeanne had but a moment before gripped the pillow with her arms, and, with her chin buried in it, had turned her face towards them. But her eyelids were still shut, and judging by her slow and regular breathing, she had again fallen asleep.