on his forehead swelled, and the convulsions began. For a
whole hour before the doctors came, I held in my arms that merry baby,
all lilies and roses, the blossom of my life, my pride, and my joy,
lifeless as a piece of wood; and his eyes! I cannot think of them
without horror. My pretty Armand was a mere mummy--black, shriveled,
misshapen.

A doctor, two doctors, brought from Marseilles by Louis, hovered about
like birds of ill omen; it made me shudder to look at them. One spoke of
brain fever, the other saw nothing but an ordinary case of convulsions
in infancy. Our own country doctor seemed to me to have the most
sense, for he offered no opinion. "It's teething," said the second
doctor.--"Fever," said the first. Finally it was agreed to put leeches
on his neck and ice on his head. It seemed to me like death. To look on,
to see a corpse, all purple or black, and not a cry, not a movement from
this creature but now so full of life and sound--it was horrible!

At one moment I lost my head, and gave a sort of hysterical laugh, as I
saw the pretty neck which I used to devour with kisses, with the leeches
feeding on it, and his darling head in a cap of ice. My dear, we had
to cut those lovely curls, of which we were so proud and with which
you used to play, in order to make room for the ice. The convulsions
returned every ten minutes with the regularity of labor pains, and then
the poor baby writhed and twisted, now white, now violet. His supple
limbs clattered like wood as they struck. And this unconscious flesh
was the being who smiled and prattled, and used to say Mamma! At the
thought, a storm of agony swept tumultuously over my soul, like the
sea tossing in a hurricane. It seemed as though every tie which binds
a child to its mother's heart was strained to rending. My mother, who
might have given me help, advice, or comfort, was in Paris. Mothers, it
is my belief, know more than doctors do about convulsions.

After four days and nights of suspense and fear, which almost killed
me, the doctors were unanimous in advising the application of a horrid
ointment, which would produce open sores. Sores on my Armand! who only
five days before was playing about, and laughing, and trying to say
"Godmother!" I would not have it done, preferring to trust in nature.
Louis, who believes in doctors, scolded me. A man remains the same
through everything. But there are moments when this terrible disease
takes the likeness of death, an