Noiselessly I pushed the door open.
Gracious heavens! what a picture!
Irene's cot, placed next to her mother's bed, occupied the end of the room facing the door.
Kneeling by the bedside, Catherine held one of the child's hands in hers.
I could not see the face of the unfortunate mother, only from time to time a sudden, convulsive movement shook her frame.
At the left side was Frank, the great painter, Hélène's husband.
Seated on a low chair, he sketched Irene's dying countenance.
A harrowing remembrance, which, no doubt, Madame de Fersen wished to preserve.
Frank, by means of a shade, had so arranged the lamp that the full light fell on Irene's face.
The rest of the apartment was plunged into almost total darkness.