"Oh! monsieur! just see how she has changed, poor child, in the ten days since you saw her! Just look at her!"
Poor little one! My heart sank and my chest heaved when I saw the shocking ravages that disease had wrought in so short a time. When I saw her, ten days before, she was pale and thin; but her pretty features had not changed. Now, her little face was all wasted away; her head, like her body, seemed shrunken; her mouth, which she kept tightly closed, her little features, constantly distorted by nervous contractions—everything indicated great suffering; and yet she was still sweet and pretty. Ought such angels to suffer? What crime can they have committed?
I took the child's hand; it was still burning. The mother gazed anxiously at my face and said:
"Monsieur, do you still hope?"
"I told you that I should always hope."
"Oh, yes! you are right; but for that, I should die."
"Does she complain? Can you guess where she feels pain?"
"Alas! she doesn't complain, poor child! But she groans and cries, and I can't soothe her any more. Oh! monsieur! I can't soothe her any more!"
Mignonne paused a moment to weep. I did not try to check her tears. They do much more harm when stored up than when they are freely shed.
In a moment she continued, pointing to the child: