ne, and Charles X. will hardly say no to a
Maucombe; but what I fear is that my father may take it into his head to
ask some favor for my younger brother. Now, if the marquisate is dangled
out of his reach, he will have no thoughts to spare from himself.

January 15th.

Ah! Louise, I have been in hell. If I can bear to tell you of my
anguish, it is because you are another self; even so, I don't know
whether I shall ever be able to live again in thought those five ghastly
days. The mere word "convulsions" makes my very heart sick. Five days!
to me they were five centuries of torture. A mother who has not been
through this martyrdom does not know what suffering is. So frenzied was
I that I even envied you, who never had a child!

The evening before that terrible day the weather was close, almost hot,
and I thought my little Armand was affected by it. Generally so sweet
and caressing, he was peevish, cried for nothing, wanted to play, and
then broke his toys. Perhaps this sort of fractiousness is the usual
sign of approaching illness with children. While I was wondering about
it, I noticed Armand's cheeks flush, but this I set down to teething,
for he is cutting four large teeth at once. So I put him to bed beside
me, and kept constantly waking through the night. He was a little
feverish, but not enough to make me uneasy, my mind being still full of
the teething. Towards morning he cried "Mamma!" and asked by signs for
something to drink; but the cry was spasmodic, and there were convulsive
twitchings in the limbs, which turned me to ice. I jumped out of bed to
fetch him a drink. Imagine my horror when, on my handing him the cup, he
remained motionless, only repeating "Mamma!" in that strange, unfamiliar
voice, which was indeed by this time hardly a voice at all. I took his
hand, but it did not respond to my pressure; it was quite stiff. I put
the cup to his lips; the poor little fellow gulped down three or four
mouthfuls in a convulsive manner that was terrible to see, and the water
made a strange sound in his throat. He clung to me desperately, and I
saw his eyes roll, as though some hidden force within were pulling at
them, till only the whites were visible; his limbs were turning rigid. I
screamed aloud, and Louis came.

"A doctor! quick!... he is dying," I cried.

Louis vanished, and my poor Armand again gasped, "Mamma! Mamma!" The
next moment he lost all consciousness of his mother's existence. The
pretty veins