That night Hélène was unable to sleep. She turned from side to side in
feverish unrest, and whenever a drowsy stupor fell on her senses, the
old sorrows would start into new life within her breast. As she dozed
and the nightmare increased, one fixed thought tortured her—she was
eager to know where Juliette and Malignon would meet. This knowledge,
she imagined, would be a source of relief to her. Where, where could it
be? Despite herself, her brain throbbed with the thought, and she
forgot everything save her craving to unravel this mystery, which
thrilled her with secret longings.
When day dawned and she began to dress, she caught herself saying
loudly: “It will be to-morrow!”
With one stocking on, and hands falling helpless to her side, she
lapsed for a while into a fresh dreamy fit. “Where, where was it that
they had agreed to meet?”
“Good-day, mother, darling!” just then exclaimed Jeanne who had
awakened in her turn.
As her strength was now returning to her, she had gone back to sleep in
her cot in the closet. With bare feet and in her nightdress she came to
throw herself on Hélène’s neck, as was her every-day custom; then back
again she rushed, to curl herself up in her warm bed for a little while
longer. This jumping in and out amused her, and a ripple of laughter
stole from under the clothes. Once more she bounded into the bedroom,
saying: “Good-morning, mammy dear!”
And again she ran off, screaming with laughter. Then she threw the
sheet over her head, and her cry came, hoarse and muffled, from beneath
it: “I’m not there! I’m not there!”
But Hélène was in no mood for play, as on other mornings; and Jeanne,
dispirited, fell asleep again. The day was still young. About eight
o’clock Rosalie made her appearance to recount the morning’s chapter of
accidents. Oh! the streets were awful outside; in going for the milk
her shoes had almost come off in the muddy slush. All the ice was
thawing; and it was quite mild too, almost oppressive. Oh! by the way,
she had almost forgotten! an old woman had come to see madame the night
before.
“Why!” she said, as there came a pull at the bell, “I expect that’s
she!”
It was Mother Fétu, but Mother Fétu transformed, magnificent in a clean
white cap, a new gown, and tartan shawl wrapped round her shoulders.
Her voice, however, still retained its plaintive tone of entreaty.
“Dear lady, it’s only I, who have taken the liberty of calling to ask
you about something!”
Hélène gazed at her, somewhat surprised by her display of finery.
“Are you better, Mother Fétu?”
“Oh yes, yes; I feel better, if I may venture to say so. You see I
always have something queer in my inside; it knocks me about
dreadfully, but still I’m better. Another thing, too; I’ve had a stroke
of luck; it was a surprise, you see, because luck hasn’t often come in
my way. But a gentleman has made me his housekeeper—and oh! it’s such a
story!”
Her words came slowly, and her small keen eyes glittered in her face,
furrowed by a thousand wrinkles. She seemed to be waiting for Hélène to
question her; but the young woman sat close to the fire which Rosalie
had just lit, and paid scant attention to her, engrossed as she was in
her own thoughts, with a look of pain on her features.
“What do you want to ask me?” she at last said to Mother Fétu.
The old lady made no immediate reply. She was scrutinizing the room,
with its rosewood furniture and blue velvet hangings. Then, with the
humble and fawning air of a pauper, she muttered: “Pardon me, madame,
but everything is so beautiful here. My gentleman has a room like this,
but it’s all in pink. Oh! it’s such a story! Just picture to yourself a
young man of good position who has taken rooms in our house. Of course,
it isn’t much of a place, but still our first and second floors are
very nice. Then, it’s so quiet, too! There’s no traffic; you could
imagine yourself in the country. The workmen have been in the house for
a whole fortnight; they have made such a jewel of his room!”
She here paused, observing that Hélène’s attention was being aroused.
“It’s for his work,” she continued in a drawling voice; “he says it’s
for his work. We have no doorkeeper, you know, and that pleases him.
Oh! my gentleman doesn’t like doorkeepers, and he is quite right, too!”
Once more she came to a halt, as though an idea had suddenly occurred
to her.
“Why, wait a minute; you must know him—of course you must. He visits
one of your lady friends!”
“Ah!” exclaimed Hélène, with colorless face.
“Yes, to be sure; the lady who lives close by—the one who used to go
with you to church. She came the other day.”
Mother Fétu’s eyes contracted, and from under the lids she took note of
her benefactress’s emotion. But Hélène strove to question her in a tone
that would not betray her agitation.
“Did she go up?”
“No, she altered her mind; perhaps she had forgotten something. But I
was at the door. She asked for Monsieur Vincent, and then got back into
her cab again, calling to the driver to return home, as it was too
late. Oh! she’s such a nice, lively, and respectable lady. The gracious
God doesn’t send many such into the world. Why, with the exception of
yourself, she’s the best—well, well, may Heaven bless you all!”
In this way Mother Fétu rambled on with the pious glibness of a devotee
who is perpetually telling her beads. But the twitching of the myriad
wrinkles of her face showed that her mind was still working, and soon
she beamed with intense satisfaction.
“Ah!” she all at once resumed in inconsequent fashion, “how I should
like to have a pair of good shoes! My gentleman has been so very kind,
I can’t ask him for anything more. You see I’m dressed; still I must
get a pair of good shoes. Look at those I have; they are all holes; and
when the weather’s muddy, as it is to-day, one’s apt to get very ill.
Yes, I was down with colic yesterday; I was writhing all the afternoon,
but if I had a pair of good shoes—”
“I’ll bring you a pair, Mother Fétu,” said Hélène, waving her towards
the door.
Then, as the old woman retired backwards, with profuse curtseying and
thanks, she asked her: “At what hour are you alone?”
“My gentleman is never there after six o’clock,” she answered. “But
don’t give yourself the trouble; I’ll come myself, and get them from
your doorkeeper. But you can do as you please. You are an angel from
heaven. God on high will requite you for all your kindness!”
When she had reached the landing she could still be heard giving vent
to her feelings. Hélène sat a long time plunged in the stupor which the
information, supplied by this woman with such fortuitous
seasonableness, had brought upon her. She now knew the place of
assignation. It was a room, with pink decorations, in that old
tumbledown house! She once more pictured to herself the staircase
oozing with damp, the yellow doors on each landing, grimy with the
touch of greasy hands, and all the wretchedness which had stirred her
heart to pity when she had gone during the previous winter to visit
Mother Fétu; and she also strove to conjure up a vision of that pink
chamber in the midst of such repulsive, poverty-stricken surroundings.
However, whilst she was still absorbed in her reverie, two tiny warm
hands were placed over her eyes, which lack of sleep had reddened, and
a laughing voice inquired: “Who is it? who is it?”
It was Jeanne, who had slipped into her clothes without assistance.
Mother Fétu’s voice had awakened her; and perceiving that the closet
door had been shut, she had made her toilet with the utmost speed in
order to give her mother a surprise.
“Who is it? who is it?” she again inquired, convulsed more and more
with laughter.
She turned to Rosalie, who entered at the moment with the breakfast.
“You know; don’t you speak. Nobody is asking you any question.”
“Be quiet, you little madcap!” exclaimed Hélène. “I suppose it’s you!”
The child slipped on to her mother’s lap, and there, leaning back and
swinging to and fro, delighted with the amusement she had devised, she
resumed:
“Well, it might have been another little girl! Eh? Perhaps some little
girl who had brought you a letter of invitation to dine with her mamma.
And she might have covered your eyes, too!”
“Don’t be silly,” exclaimed Hélène, as she set her on the floor. “What
are you talking about? Rosalie, let us have breakfast.”
The maid’s eyes, however, were riveted on the child, and she commented
upon her little mistress being so oddly dressed. To tell the truth, so
great had been Jeanne’s haste that she had not put on her shoes. She
had drawn on a short flannel petticoat which allowed a glimpse of her
chemise, and had left her morning jacket open, so that you could see
her delicate, undeveloped bosom. With her hair streaming behind her,
stamping about in her stockings, which were all awry, she looked
charming, all in white like some child of fairyland.
She cast down her eyes to see herself, and immediately burst into
laughter.
“Look, mamma, I look nice, don’t I? Won’t you let me be as I am? It is
nice!”
Repressing a gesture of impatience, Hélène, as was her wont every
morning, inquired: “Are you washed?”
“Oh, mamma!” pleaded the child, her joy suddenly dashed. “Oh, mamma!
it’s raining; it’s too nasty!”
“Then, you’ll have no breakfast. Wash her, Rosalie.”
She usually took this office upon herself, but that morning she felt
altogether out of sorts, and drew nearer to the fire, shivering,
although the weather was so balmy. Having spread a napkin and placed
two white china bowls on a small round table, Rosalie had brought the
latter close to the fireplace. The coffee and milk steamed before the
fire in a silver pot, which had been a present from Monsieur Rambaud.
At this early hour the disorderly, drowsy room seemed delightfully
homelike.
“Mamma, mamma!” screamed Jeanne from the depths of the closet, “she’s
rubbing me too hard. It’s taking my skin off. Oh dear! how awfully
cold!”
Hélène, with eyes fixed on the coffee-pot, remained engrossed in
thought. She desired to know everything, so she would go. The thought
of that mysterious place of assignation in so squalid a nook of Paris
was an ever-present pain and vexation. She judged such taste hateful,
but in it she identified Malignon’s leaning towards romance.
“Mademoiselle,” declared Rosalie, “if you don’t let me finish with you,
I shall call madame.”
“Stop, stop: you are poking the soap into my eyes,” answered Jeanne,
whose voice was hoarse with sobs. “Leave me alone; I’ve had enough of
it. The ears can wait till to-morrow.”
But the splashing of water went on, and the squeezing of the sponge
into the basin could be heard. There was a clamor and a struggle, the
child was sobbing; but almost immediately afterward she made her
appearance, shouting gaily: “It’s over now; it’s over now!”
Her hair was still glistening with wet, and she shook herself, her face
glowing with the rubbing it had received and exhaling a fresh and
pleasant odor. In her struggle to get free her jacket had slipped from
her shoulders, her petticoat had become loosened, and her stockings had
tumbled down, displaying her bare legs. According to Rosalie, she
looked like an infant Jesus. Jeanne, however, felt very proud that she
was clean; she had no wish to be dressed again.
“Look at me, mamma; look at my hands, and my neck, and my ears. Oh! you
must let me warm myself; I am so comfortable. You don’t say anything;
surely I’ve deserved my breakfast to-day.”
She had curled herself up before the fire in her own little easy-chair.
Then Rosalie poured out the coffee and milk. Jeanne took her bowl on
her lap, and gravely soaked her toast in its contents with all the airs
of a grown-up person. Hélène had always forbidden her to eat in this
way, but that morning she remained plunged in thought. She did not
touch her own bread, and was satisfied with drinking her coffee. Then
Jeanne, after swallowing her last morsel, was stung with remorse. Her
heart filled, she put aside her bowl, and gazing on her mother’s pale
face, threw herself on her neck: “Mamma, are you ill now? I haven’t
vexed you, have I?—say.”
“No, no, my darling, quite the contrary; you’re very good,” murmured
Hélène as she embraced her. “I’m only a little wearied; I haven’t slept
well. Go on playing: don’t be uneasy.”
The thought occurred to her that the day would prove a terribly long
one. What could she do whilst waiting for the night? For some time past
she had abandoned her needlework; sewing had become a terrible
weariness. For hours she lingered in her seat with idle hands, almost
suffocating in her room, and craving to go out into the open air for
breath, yet never stirring. It was this room which made her ill; she
hated it, in angry exasperation over the two years which she had spent
within its walls; its blue velvet and the vast panorama of the mighty
city disgusted her, and her thoughts dwelt on a lodging in some busy
street, the uproar of which would have deafened her. Good heavens! how
long were the hours! She took up a book, but the fixed idea that
engrossed her mind continually conjured up the same visions between her
eyes and the page of print.
In the meantime Rosalie had been busy setting the room in order;
Jeanne’s hair also had been brushed, and she was dressed. While her
mother sat at the window, striving to read, the child, who was in one
of her moods of obstreperous gaiety, began playing a grand game. She
was all alone; but this gave her no discomfort; she herself represented
three or four persons in turn with comical earnestness and gravity. At
first she played the lady going on a visit. She vanished into the
dining-room, and returned bowing and smiling, her head nodding this way
and that in the most coquettish style.
“Good-day, madame! How are you, madame? How long it is since I’ve seen
you! A marvellously long time, to be sure! Dear me, I’ve been so ill,
madame! Yes; I’ve had the cholera; it’s very disagreeable. Oh! it
doesn’t show; no, no, it makes you look younger, on my word of honor.
And your children, madame? Oh! I’ve had three since last summer!”
So she rattled on, never ceasing her curtseying to the round table,
which doubtless represented the lady she was visiting. Next she
ventured to bring the chairs closer together, and for an hour carried
on a general conversation, her talk abounding in extraordinary phrases.
“Don’t be silly,” said her mother at intervals, when the chatter put
her out of patience.
“But, mamma, I’m paying my friend a visit. She’s speaking to me, and I
must answer her. At tea nobody ought to put the cakes in their pockets,
ought they?”
Then she turned and began again:
“Good-bye, madame; your tea was delicious. Remember me most kindly to
your husband.”
The next moment came something else. She was going out shopping in her
carriage, and got astride of a chair like a boy.
“Jean, not so quick; I’m afraid. Stop! stop! here is the milliner’s!
Mademoiselle, how much is this bonnet? Three hundred francs; that isn’t
dear. But it isn’t pretty. I should like it with a bird on it—a bird
big like that! Come, Jean, drive me to the grocer’s. Have you some
honey? Yes, madame, here is some. Oh, how nice it is! But I don’t want
any of it; give me two sous’ worth of sugar. Oh! Jean, look, take care!
There! we have had a spill! Mr. Policeman, it was the cart which drove
against us. You’re not hurt, madame, are you? No, sir, not in the
least. Jean, Jean! home now. Gee-up! gee-up. Wait a minute; I must
order some chemises. Three dozen chemises for madame. I want some boots
too and some stays. Gee-up! gee-up! Good gracious, we shall never get
back again.”
Then she fanned herself, enacting the part of the lady who has returned
home and is finding fault with her servants. She never remained quiet
for a moment; she was in a feverish ecstasy, full of all sorts of
whimsical ideas; all the life she knew surged up in her little brain
and escaped from it in fragments. Morning and afternoon she thus moved
about, dancing and chattering; and when she grew tired, a footstool or
parasol discovered in a corner, or some shred of stuff lying on the
floor, would suffice to launch her into a new game in which her
effervescing imagination found fresh outlet. Persons, places, and
incidents were all of her own creation, and she amused herself as much
as though twelve children of her own age had been beside her.
But evening came at last. Six o’clock was about to strike. And Hélène,
rousing herself from the troubled stupor in which she had spent the
afternoon, hurriedly threw a shawl over her shoulders.
“Are you going out, mamma?” asked Jeanne in her surprise.
“Yes, my darling, just for a walk close by. I won’t be long; be good.”
Outside it was still thawing. The footways were covered with mud. In
the Rue de Passy, Hélène entered a boot shop, to which she had taken
Mother Fétu on a previous occasion. Then she returned along the Rue
Raynouard. The sky was grey, and from the pavement a mist was rising.
The street stretched dimly before her, deserted and fear-inspiring,
though the hour was yet early. In the damp haze the infrequent
gas-lamps glimmered like yellow spots. She quickened her steps, keeping
close to the houses, and shrinking from sight as though she were on the
way to some assignation. However, as she hastily turned into the
Passage des Eaux, she halted beneath the archway, her heart giving way
to genuine terror. The passage opened beneath her like some black gulf.
The bottom of it was invisible; the only thing she could see in this
black tunnel was the quivering gleam of the one lamp which lighted it.
Eventually she made up her mind, and grasped the iron railing to
prevent herself from slipping. Feeling her way with the tip of her
boots she landed successively on the broad steps. The walls, right and
left, grew closer, seemingly prolonged by the darkness, while the bare
branches of the trees above cast vague shadows, like those of gigantic
arms with closed or outstretched hands. She trembled as she thought
that one of the garden doors might open and a man spring out upon her.
There were no passers-by, however, and she stepped down as quickly as
possible. Suddenly from out of the darkness loomed a shadow which
coughed, and she was frozen with fear; but it was only an old woman
creeping with difficulty up the path. Then she felt less uneasy, and
carefully raised her dress, which had been trailing in the mud. So
thick was the latter that her boots were constantly sticking to the
steps. At the bottom she turned aside instinctively. From the branches
the raindrops dripped fast into the passage, and the lamp glimmered
like that of some miner, hanging to the side of a pit which
infiltrations have rendered dangerous.
Hélène climbed straight to the attic she had so often visited at the
top of the large house abutting on the Passage. But nothing stirred,
although she rapped loudly. In considerable perplexity she descended
the stairs again. Mother Fétu was doubtless in the rooms on the first
floor, where, however, Hélène dared not show herself. She remained five
minutes in the entry, which was lighted by a petroleum lamp. Then again
she ascended the stairs hesitatingly, gazing at each door, and was on
the point of going away, when the old woman leaned over the balusters.
“What! it’s you on the stairs, my good lady!” she exclaimed. “Come in,
and don’t catch cold out there. Oh! it is a vile place—enough to kill
one.”
“No, thank you,” said Hélène; “I’ve brought you your pair of shoes,
Mother Fétu.”
She looked at the door which Mother Fétu had left open behind her, and
caught a glimpse of a stove within.
“I’m all alone, I assure you,” declared the old woman. “Come in. This
is the kitchen here. Oh! you’re not proud with us poor folks; we can
talk to you!”
Despite the repugnance which shame at the purpose of her coming created
within her, Hélène followed her.
“God in Heaven! how can I thank you! Oh, what lovely shoes! Wait, and
I’ll put them on. There’s my whole foot in; it fits me like a glove.
Bless the day! I can walk with these without being afraid of the rain.
Oh! my good lady, you are my preserver; you’ve given me ten more years
of life. No, no, it’s no flattery; it’s what I think, as true as
there’s a lamp shining on us. No, no, I don’t flatter!”
She melted into tears as she spoke, and grasping Hélène’s hands kissed
them. In a stewpan on the stove some wine was being heated, and on the
table, near the lamp, stood a half-empty bottle of Bordeaux with its
tapering neck. The only other things placed there were four dishes, a
glass, two saucepans, and an earthenware pot. It could be seen that
Mother Fétu camped in this bachelor’s kitchen, and that the fires were
lit for herself only. Seeing Hélène’s glance turn towards the stewpan,
she coughed, and once more put on her dolorous expression.
“It’s gripping me again,” she groaned. “Oh! it’s useless for the doctor
to talk; I must have some creature in my inside. And then, a drop of
wine relieves me so. I’m greatly afflicted, my good lady. I wouldn’t
have a soul suffer from my trouble; it’s too dreadful. Well, I’m
nursing myself a bit now; and when a person has passed through so much,
isn’t it fair she should do so? I have been so lucky in falling in with
a nice gentleman. May Heaven bless him!”
With this outburst she dropped two large lumps of sugar into her wine.
She was now getting more corpulent than ever, and her little eyes had
almost vanished from her fat face. She moved slowly with a beatifical
expression of felicity. Her life’s ambition was now evidently
satisfied. For this she had been born. When she put her sugar away
again Hélène caught a glimpse of some tid-bits secreted at the bottom
of a cupboard—a jar of preserves, a bag of biscuits, and even some
cigars, all doubtless pilfered from the gentleman lodger.
“Well, good-bye, Mother Fétu, I’m going away,” she exclaimed.
The old lady, however, pushed the saucepan to one side of the stove and
murmured: “Wait a minute; this is far too hot, I’ll drink it by-and-by.
No, no; don’t go out that way. I must beg pardon for having received
you in the kitchen. Let us go round the rooms.”
She caught up the lamp, and turned into a narrow passage. Hélène, with
beating heart, followed close behind. The passage, dilapidated and
smoky, was reeking with damp. Then a door was thrown open, and she
found herself treading a thick carpet. Mother Fétu had already advanced
into a room which was plunged in darkness and silence.
“Well?” she asked, as she lifted up the lamp; “it’s very nice, isn’t
it?”
There were two rooms, each of them square, communicating with one
another by folding-doors, which had been removed, and replaced by
curtains. Both were hung with pink cretonne of a Louis Quinze pattern,
picturing chubby-checked cupids disporting themselves amongst garlands
of flowers. In the first apartment there was a round table, two
lounges, and some easy-chairs; and in the second, which was somewhat
smaller, most of the space was occupied by the bed. Mother Fétu drew
attention to a crystal lamp with gilt chains, which hung from the
ceiling. To her this lamp was the veritable acme of luxury.
Then she began explaining things: “You can’t imagine what a funny
fellow he is! He lights it up in mid-day, and stays here, smoking a
cigar and gazing into vacancy. But it amuses him, it seems. Well, it
doesn’t matter; I’ve an idea he must have spent a lot of money in his
time.”
Hélène went through the rooms in silence. They seemed to her in bad
taste. There was too much pink everywhere; the furniture also looked
far too new.
“He calls himself Monsieur Vincent,” continued the old woman, rambling
on. “Of course, it’s all the same to me. As long as he pays, my
gentleman—”
“Well, good-bye, Mother Fétu,” said Hélène, in whose throat a feeling
of suffocation was gathering.
She was burning to get away, but on opening a door she found herself
threading three small rooms, the bareness and dirt of which were
repulsive. The paper hung in tatters from the walls, the ceilings were
grimy, and old plaster littered the broken floors. The whole place was
pervaded by a smell of long prevalent squalor.
“Not that way! not that way!” screamed Mother Fétu. “That door is
generally shut. These are the other rooms which they haven’t attempted
to clean. My word! it’s cost him quite enough already! Yes, indeed,
these aren’t nearly so nice! Come this way, my good lady—come this
way!”
On Hélène’s return to the pink boudoir, she stopped to kiss her hand
once more.
“You see, I’m not ungrateful! I shall never forget the shoes. How well
they fit me! and how warm they are! Why, I could walk half-a-dozen
miles with them. What can I beg Heaven to grant you? O Lord, hearken to
me, and grant that she may be the happiest of women—in the name of the
Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!” A devout enthusiasm had suddenly
come upon Mother Fétu; she repeated the sign of the cross again and
again, and bowed the knee in the direction of the crystal lamp. This
done, she opened the door conducting to the landing, and whispered in a
changed voice into Hélène’s ear:
“Whenever you like to call, just knock at the kitchen door; I’m always
there!”
Dazed, and glancing behind her as though she were leaving a place of
dubious repute, Hélène hurried down the staircase, reascended the
Passage des Eaux, and regained the Rue Vineuse, without consciousness
of the ground she was covering. The old woman’s last words still rang
in her ears. In truth, no; never again would she set foot in that
house, never again would she bear her charity thither. Why should she
ever rap at the kitchen door again? At present she was satisfied; she
had seen what was to be seen. And she was full of scorn for herself—for
everybody. How disgraceful to have gone there! The recollection of the
place with its tawdry finery and squalid surroundings filled her with
mingled anger and disgust.
“Well, madame,” exclaimed Rosalie, who was awaiting her return on the
staircase, “the dinner will be nice. Dear, oh dear! it’s been burning
for half an hour!”
At table Jeanne plagued her mother with questions. Where had she been?
what had she been about? However, as the answers she received proved
somewhat curt, she began to amuse herself by giving a little dinner.
Her doll was perched near her on a chair, and in a sisterly fashion she
placed half of her dessert before it.
“Now, mademoiselle, you must eat like a lady. See, wipe your mouth. Oh,
the dirty little thing! She doesn’t even know how to wear her napkin!
There, you’re nice now. See, here is a biscuit. What do you say? You
want some preserve on it. Well, I should think it better as it is! Let
me pare you a quarter of this apple!”
She placed the doll’s share on the chair. But when she had emptied her
own plate she took the dainties back again one after the other and
devoured them, speaking all the time as though she were the doll.
“Oh! it’s delicious! I’ve never eaten such nice jam! Where did you get
this jam, madame? I shall tell my husband to buy a pot of it. Do those
beautiful apples come from your garden, madame?”
She fell asleep while thus playing, and stumbled into the bedroom with
the doll in her arms. She had given herself no rest since morning. Her
little legs could no longer sustain her—she was helpless and wearied to
death. However, a ripple of laughter passed over her face even in
sleep; in her dreams she must have been still continuing her play.
At last Hélène was alone in her room. With closed doors she spent a
miserable evening beside the dead fire. Her will was failing her;
thoughts that found no utterance were stirring within the innermost
recesses of her heart. At midnight she wearily sought her bed, but
there her torture passed endurance. She dozed, she tossed from side to
side as though a fire were beneath her. She was haunted by visions
which sleeplessness enlarged to a gigantic size. Then an idea took root
in her brain. In vain did she strive to banish it; it clung to her,
surged and clutched her at the throat till it entirely swayed her.
About two o’clock she rose, rigid, pallid, and resolute as a
somnambulist, and having again lighted the lamp she wrote a letter in a
disguised hand; it was a vague denunciation, a note of three lines,
requesting Doctor Deberle to repair that day to such a place at such an
hour; there was no explanation, no signature. She sealed the envelope
and dropped the letter into the pocket of her dress which was hanging
over an arm-chair. Then returning to bed, she immediately closed her
eyes, and in a few minutes was lying there breathless, overpowered by
leaden slumber.