A tall man, in a fur-lined coat, stood at the foot of the cot. His hair was white; his prominent bald forehead shone like old ivory; a ray of bright light brought out his sharply marked profile.
This was Doctor Ralph, Madame de Fersen's medical attendant.
He seemed watching with an anxious eye the slightest change in Irene's face.
In a dark corner of the room the nurse was seated, leaning her head against the wall, and scarcely able to smother her sobs.
As I entered, her sobbing became so uncontrollable that, holding her handkerchief to her mouth, she left the room.
I, also, was weeping bitterly at the sight of that angelic, childish face, so tender, so resigned, which, in spite of approaching death, preserved a character of sublime serenity.
Brilliantly lighted, her pale face stood out vividly against the white pillows; her beautiful black locks fell in disorder, covering her forehead; her large eyes half closed, and encircled by dark rings, showed under the heavy lids her half-extinct pupils. From her pretty half-open mouth, from her lips, formerly so roseate, and now so discoloured, came forth a panting breath, and often a feeble plaintive murmur. This poor little face, formerly so plump, so fresh and childlike, was already becoming livid.
From time to time the unhappy child moved her hands restlessly into space, or turned her head heavily on her pillows, with a deep sigh. Then she again became frightfully still.
Frank's face, which I had not seen for two years, wore an expression of heart-breaking sadness.
He, also, could not repress his tears every time he glanced at the face of the dying child.