The event was telegraphed all over Europe, and crowds of savants and doctors came and left their cards, but no one was admitted by the doctor's orders. The ringing of the bell occurred so often that it became a nuisance, and Villebois had it removed.
The next day the temperature touched 98° Fahrenheit and Delapine opened and closed his eyes and looked around him. He moved his limbs slowly and even attempted to sit up, but the effort was too great, and he sank back again on his pillow.
A consultation was arranged forthwith, and half a dozen of the most celebrated physicians in Paris came to the house.
Renée was in the seventh heaven of delight as she heard her name whispered in her ear as she bent over him that evening. He made signs that he wanted food, and the doctors agreed to give him some beef-essence. A few days afterwards about three in the morning Renée's mother appeared again. "Renée," she said, "I am about to be called away, and must leave you for good."
"For good, mother? You don't mean to say that I shall not see you any more?" said Renée, looking very distressed.
"I must go, dear, but Henri will take my place. When you pass over to the other side you will see me as often as you please, but now I must leave you."
"Mother dear, won't you give me some keepsake?"
"Bring me a pair of scissors and I will cut off a lock of my hair." So saying her mother snipped off one of her light golden curls, and giving her a long tender embrace slowly vanished out of her sight. Renée looked around her. She was alone save for the form of her lover. It all seemed like a wonderful dream, and she rubbed her eyes to make sure she was awake. "I must have been dreaming," she said, but no, here was the lock of her mother's beautiful silky hair in her hand. That at any rate was no dream, and was proof positive that someone had brought it, and that her vision was not a dream but a stern reality. Renée kissed the lock of hair, and carefully put it away in one of her little treasure boxes.
"Ah! how many happy hours I have spent in playing with that beautiful hair, and now to think that I should actually handle it again. Who would ever have thought it possible? How sorry I feel for the poor poet Cowper when the only thing he had left of his beloved mother was her portrait, and which he immortalised in those beautiful lines which my governess taught me:—
"'Oh that those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine—thine own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Faithful remembrances of one so dear,
O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
My mother! When I learnt that thou wast dead,
Say wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss,
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss.'"