The door closed softly between the two. Then Marguerite sank slowly back upon the bed, closed her eyes, and rocking her head from side to side, said again and again, in moans that scarcely left the lips:
“My mother! my mother! Take me back! Oh! take me back, my mother! my mother!”
At length she arose, put off her attire, lay down to rest, and, even while she was charging sleep with being a thousand leagues away—slept.
When she awoke, the wide, bright morning filled all the room. Had some sound wakened her? Yes, a soft tapping came again upon her door. She lay still. It sounded once more. For all its softness, it seemed nervous and eager. A low voice came with it:
“Marguerite!”
She sprang from her pillow.—“Yes!”
While she answered, it came again,—
“Marguerite!”
With a low cry, she cast away the bed-coverings, threw back the white mosquito-curtain and the dark masses of her hair, and started up, lifted and opened her arms, cried again, but with joy, “My mother! my mother!” and clasped Zoséphine to her bosom.