As I looked at her it suddenly struck me that she herself did not look much to brag about. But she put on her mantle and we followed Helstern to the rue Mazarin.
“It was like this,” he told us. “I had an idea of a statue to be called Bedtime. It was to be a little Solonge, clad in her chemise and hugging a doll to her breast. So I went to see the mother and found the child had been sick for some days. I fetched the doctor; none too soon. We’ve got to pull the kid through.”
We found the Môme lying in an apathetic way, her lovely hair streaming over the pillow, her face already hollow and strange-looking. She regarded us dully, but with no sign of recognition. Then she seemed to sleep, and her eyes, barely closed, showed the whites between the long lashes.
Frosine was calm and courageous, but her face was worn with long vigils, and her eyes, usually so cheerful, were now of a tragic seriousness. She turned to us eagerly.
“I can’t get her roused, my little one. Not even for her mother will she smile. She just lies there as if she were tired. If she begins to sleep, she twitches and opens her eyes again. It was a week ago I first noticed she was ailing. She could scarcely hold up her arms as I went to dress her. So I put her to bed again, and ever since she’s been sinking. She’s all I’ve got in the world and I’m afraid I’m going to lose her. Willingly would I go in her place.”
We arranged that Anastasia would remain there and take turns watching by the bedside of the Môme; then I returned to our garret alone.
It was more trying than ever now. Every day some of my manuscripts came back, and I had not the courage to send them out again. My novel, too, made its appearance one morning with the usual letter of regret. More sensitive than other men, it says much for authors that they bear up so well under successive blows of fate. With me a rejection meant a state of bitter gloom for the rest of the day; and as nearly every day brought its rejection, cheerful intervals were few and far between.
To get the proper working stimulus I drank immense quantities of strong black coffee. In my desperate mood I think I would have taken hasheesh if necessary. It was the awful brain nausea that distressed me most, the sense of having so much to say and being unable to say it. I had moods of rage and misery, and sometimes I wondered if it was not through these that men entered into the domain of madness.
But after about six cups of coffee I would brighten miraculously. My brain would be a gleaming, exulting, conquering thing. I would feel the direct vision, the power of forth-right expression. Thrilling with joy, I would rush to my typewriter, and no power could drag me away from it. If Anastasia approached me at such a moment I would wave my arm frantically:
“Oh, please go away. Don’t bother me.”