“I think I could help you a little,” Thérèse said gently. “Once my aunt had a fever, and I used to nurse her. And you seem so ill yourself.”
This time there was no answer. The woman, who had her arm on the pillow of the bed, on which lay a girl, a little younger than Thérèse, neither moved nor objected, but watched mechanically while Thérèse drew off the quilt from the bed, fastened open the window, and moistened the lips of the sufferer, who was unconscious of her presence. Afterwards the woman said she had believed it was the Blessed Virgin, or one of the saints, who came in so strangely; but even this conviction did not astonish her. She sat there, and watched dully until the sick girl started up, and poured out a wild torrent of delirious words. They were obliged to hold and soothe her while it lasted; but when it was over she sank down in utter exhaustion.
“Is there medicine to give her?” asked Thérèse. The woman nodded, and pointed to a bottle, on which the directions were clearly written. Thérèse poured out the quantity and gave it to her.
“See there,” she said cheerfully; “she is tranquil now. Is she your daughter?”
“My daughter,” answered the woman in a low hoarse voice. “As you know, her father is dead, and they have just carried him away. I have had it, too, and she nursed me.”
Thérèse, wondering over the phrase “as you know,” asked where were the children.
“M. Pinot has taken them.”
“Is M. Pinot coming again?”
“He or the other. I do not know,” said the woman wearily. She would not speak again, but she did not interfere with any of Thérèse’s movements. The girl found wine in a bottle, and made her drink a little, after she had poured some between poor Fanchon’s lips; the same girl who had chattered so merrily at the fountain the year before. Then she heated some soup for the poor mother, and made the room look a little less deplorable than it had done when she entered it. Her fear had left her utterly—a great pity had swallowed it. But her heart beat fast, when as evening was coming on she heard a step at the door.
It was M. Deshoulières. Thérèse saw that with a glad throb, but she was standing a little behind the door in the shadow, and he came in quickly, and passed to the bed without noticing that a third person was in the room. Neither did he speak for a few moments, but at last turned to the poor mother and said,—