"Quick! Quick! Let us take the cradle near the open window. Room! room! The little one needs air. Make room."
My brother and I carried the cradle, which seemed like a coffin. But, in the daylight, the spectacle was still more frightful, beneath that cold, white light reflected by the snow.
My mother cried:
"He is dying! Look, look: he is dying! Feel: his pulse has stopped!"
And the doctor said:
"No, no. He breathes. As long as there is a sigh, there is some hope."
And between the livid lips of the dying child he introduced a spoonful of ether. After a few seconds, the child opened his eyes, turned up his pupils, and gave a feeble wail. A slight change took place in his color. His nostrils quivered.
The doctor said:
"Don't you see? He breathes. We must hope, even to the end."
He agitated the air above the cradle with a fan; then with his finger he depressed the baby's chin in order to unclose his lips, to open the mouth. The tongue, clove to the palate, fell down like a clapper; and I caught a glimpse of the thread-like mucus that stretched between the palate and the tongue, the whitish matter accumulated in the throat. A convulsive movement raised towards the face the little hands, that had become violet, particularly at the palms, at the folds of the phalanges, and at the nails—hands already cadaverous, and which my mother touched each moment. The little finger of the right hand was always kept apart, away from the other fingers, and trembled lightly. Nothing could be more lamentable.