“Poor darling!” said Lydie, kissing her dream lovingly. “I do think she is better since morning. What had I better give her, doctor? Broth disgusts her, and she won’t take soup.”
“Well,” said Cerizet, “try panada. Does she like sweet things?”
“Oh, yes!” cried the poor girl, her face brightening, “she adores them. Would chocolate be good for her?”
“Certainly,” replied Cerizet, “but without vanilla; vanilla is very heating.”
“Then I’ll get what they call health-chocolate,” said Lydie, with all the intonations of a mother, listening to the doctor as to a god who reassured her. “Uncle,” she added, “please ring for Bruneau, and tell him to go to Marquis at once and get some pounds of that chocolate.”
“Bruneau has just gone out,” said her guardian; “but there’s no hurry, he shall go in the course of the day.”
“There, she is going to sleep,” said Cerizet, anxious to put an end to the scene, which, in spite of his hardened nature, he felt to be painful.
“True,” said the girl, replacing the bandages and rising; “I’ll put her to bed. Adieu, doctor; it is very kind of you to come sometimes without being sent for. If you knew how anxious we poor mothers are, and how, with a word or two, you can do us such good. Ah, there she is crying!”
“She is so sleepy,” said Cerizet; “she’ll be much better in her cradle.”
“Yes, and I’ll play her that sonata of Beethoven that dear papa was so fond of; it is wonderful how calming it is. Adieu, doctor,” she said again, pausing on the threshold of the door. “Adieu, kind doctor!” And she sent him a kiss.