“Give me a drink. What a time you take! I am left here dying of thirst!” And when Hélène handed the glass to her she would exclaim: “There’s no sugar in it; I won’t have it!”
Then she would throw herself back on her pillow, and a second time push away the glass, with the complaint that the drink was too sweet. They no longer cared to attend to her, she would say; they were doing it purposely. Hélène, dreading lest she might infuriate her to a yet greater extent, made no reply, but gazed on her with tears trembling on her cheeks.
However, Jeanne’s anger was particularly visible when the doctor made his appearance. The moment he entered the sick-room she would lay herself flat in bed, or sullenly hang her head in the manner of savage brutes who will not suffer a stranger to come near. Sometimes she refused to say a word, allowing him to feel her pulse or examine her while she remained motionless with her eyes fixed on the ceiling. On other days she would not even look at him, but clasp her hands over her eyes with such a gust of passion that to remove them would have necessitated the violent twisting of her arms. One night, as her mother was about to give her a spoonful of medicine, she burst out with the cruel remark: “I won’t have it; it will poison me.”
Hélène’s heart, pierced to the quick, sank within her, and she dreaded to elicit what the remark might mean.
“What are you saying, my child?” she asked. “Do you understand what you are talking about? Medicine is never nice to take. You must drink this.”
But Jeanne lay there in obstinate silence, and averted her head in order to get rid of the draught. From that day onward she was full of caprices, swallowing or rejecting her medicines according to the humor of the moment. She would sniff at the phials and examine them suspiciously as they stood on the night-table. Should she have refused to drink the contents of one of them she never forgot its identity, and would have died rather than allow a drop from it to pass her lips. Honest Monsieur Rambaud alone could persuade her at times. It was he whom she now overwhelmed with the most lavish caresses, especially if the doctor were looking on; and her gleaming eyes were turned towards her mother to note if she were vexed by this display of affection towards another.
“Oh, it’s you, old friend!” she exclaimed the moment he entered. “Come and sit down near me. Have you brought me any oranges?”
She sat up and laughingly fumbled in his pockets, where goodies were always secreted. Then she embraced him, playing quite a love comedy, while her revenge found satisfaction in the anguish which she imagined she could read on her mother’s pallid face. Monsieur Rambaud beamed with joy over his restoration to his little sweetheart’s good graces. But Hélène, on meeting him in the ante-room, was usually able to acquaint him with the state of affairs, and all at once he would look at the draught standing on the table and exclaim: “What! are you having syrup?”
Jeanne’s face clouded over, and, in a low voice, she replied: “No, no, it’s nasty, it’s nauseous; I can’t take it.”
“What! you can’t drink this?” questioned Monsieur Rambaud gaily. “I can wager it’s very good. May I take a little of it?”