"Ah, it was a vile remise," eagerly answered a dozen voices. "She was returning home yesterday from selling the mats, and the driver was drunk. She fell in crossing, and he did not see her. The wheel crushed her poor chest. Ah, she will die, the unhappy child!"
"Where is Jean?" I asked.
His mother silently pointed out what looked like a bundle of clothes huddled up in the bed beside the dying child. She was dying, my poor Poucette. One of the kind-hearted surgeons from the hôpital had been to see her early that morning, and pronounced that beside the blow on her chest, which was of itself a dangerous one, severe internal injuries had taken place, which must end her life in a few hours. Poor Poucette! I seated myself by the little couch in the dark room, which was so soon to be filled by the presence of death, and presently the surgeon came again. All eyes turned anxiously toward him as he walked to the bed, and kneeling down beside it, carefully examined the poor little sufferer, whose only sign of consciousness was a groan of anguish now and then.
"Can nothing be done for her?" I asked, as he rose to his feet and stood by the bed, looking pityingly down at the two children.
"Nothing whatever," he said, with a mournful shake of his head. "She will not last through the night."
"Does she suffer?" I asked.
"Acutely, but it will not be for long. Mortification is setting in rapidly." He paused, then added: "She will probably regain consciousness at the last;" and left the room.
Slowly the weary hours glided on; gradually the moans became weaker, and the pulse quick and fitful. Suddenly she opened her eyes, and looked at me inquiringly; then her eyes fell [{268}] on Jean, who lay at her side, and uttered an exclamation of joy. "I am not in pain now," she said faintly; "that is over.—Ah, my good monsieur, you said you would return. I am glad."
"I am grieved to find you thus, Poucette," I whispered. "Can I do anything for you?"
"Perhaps you would like to have Mouton," she said calmly, as if thinking aloud.