Hélène, on finding herself once more in her blue dressing-gown, gave vent to a slight sigh, as though a new happiness had welled up within her. She again regained her old cheerfulness; she had rid herself of a burden in throwing off those bedraggled garments. She washed her face and hands; and while she stood there, still glistening with moisture, her dressing-gown buttoned up to her chin, she was slowly approached by Jeanne, who took one of her hands and kissed it.
At table, however, not a word passed between mother and daughter. The fire flared with a merry roar, and there was a look of happiness about the little dining-room, with its bright mahogany and gleaming china. But the old stupor which drove away all thought seemed to have again fallen on Hélène; she ate mechanically, though with an appearance of appetite. Jeanne sat facing her, and quietly watched her over her glass, noting each of her movements. But all at once the child again coughed, and her mother, who had become unconscious of her presence, immediately displayed lively concern.
“Why, you’re coughing again! Aren’t you getting warm?”
“Oh, yes, mamma; I’m very warm.”
Hélène leaned towards her to feel her hand and ascertain whether she was speaking the truth. Only then did she perceive that her plate was still full.
“Why, you said you were hungry. Don’t you like what you have there?”
“Oh, yes, mamma; I’m eating away.”
With an effort Jeanne swallowed a mouthful. Hélène looked at her for a time, but soon again began dreaming of the fatal room which she had come from. It did not escape the child that her mother took little interest in her now. As the dinner came to an end, her poor wearied frame sank down on the chair, and she sat there like some bent, aged woman, with the dim eyes of one of those old maids for whom love is past and gone.
“Won’t mademoiselle have any jam?” asked Rosalie. “If not, can I remove the cloth?”
Hélène still sat there with far-away looks.