“What! seven o’clock!”
Astonishment riveted her to the floor; she had lost all consciousness of time, and seemed to awaken from a dream.
“And where’s Jeanne?” she asked.
“Oh! she has been very good, madame. I even think she must have fallen asleep, for I haven’t heard her for some time.”
“Haven’t you given her a light?”
Embarrassment closed Rosalie’s lips; she was unwilling to relate that Zephyrin had brought her some pictures which had engrossed her attention. Mademoiselle had never made the least stir, so she could scarcely have wanted anything. Hélène, however, paid no further heed to her, but ran into the room, where a dreadful chill fell upon her.
“Jeanne! Jeanne!” she called.
No answer broke the stillness. She stumbled against an arm-chair. From the dining-room, the door of which she had left ajar, some light streamed across a corner of the carpet. She felt a shiver come over her, and she could have declared that the rain was falling in the room, with its moist breath and continuous streaming. Then, on turning her head, she at once saw the pale square formed by the open window and the gloomy grey of the sky.
“Who can have opened this window?” she cried. “Jeanne! Jeanne!”
Still no answering word. A mortal terror fell on Hélène’s heart. She must look out of this window; but as she felt her way towards it, her hands lighted on a head of hair—it was Jeanne’s. And then, as Rosalie entered with a lamp, the child appeared with blanched face, sleeping with her cheek upon her crossed arms, while the big raindrops from the roof splashed upon her. Her breathing was scarcely perceptible, so overcome she was with despair and fatigue. Among the lashes of her large, bluey eyelids there were still two heavy tears.