ame over her
that she would die if she were to remain longer in bed, she preferred to
get up, notwithstanding the immense effort required to do so.

She was almost stifled. Putting on a dressing-gown and warm slippers,
she crept along slowly as far as the window, which she opened wide.
The winter was somewhat rainy, but of a mild dampness; so the air was
pleasant to breathe. She sank back into her great armchair, after having
turned up the wick of a lamp which was on a table near her, and which
was always allowed to be kept burning during the entire night. There,
by the side of the volume of the "Golden Legend," was the bouquet of
hydrangeas and hollyhocks which she had begun to copy. That she might
once more attach herself to the life which she realised was fast passing
from her she had a sudden fancy to work, and drawing her frame forward,
she made a few stitches with her trembling fingers. The red silk of the
rose-tremiere seemed of a deeper hue than ever, in contrast with her
white hands: it was almost as if it were the blood from her veins which
was quietly flowing away drop by drop.

But she, who for two hours had turned in vain from side to side in the
burning bedclothes, yielded almost immediately to sleep as soon as she
was seated. Her head drooped a little toward her right shoulder, being
supported by the back of her chair, and the silk remaining in her
motionless hands, a looker-on would have thought she was still
embroidering. White as snow, perfectly calm, she slept under the light
of the lamp in the chamber, still and quiet as a tomb. The faded, rosy
draperies of the great royal couch were paler than ever in their shady
corner, and the gloom of the walls of the room was only relieved by the
great chest of drawers, the wardrobe, and the chairs of old carved oak.
Minutes passed; her slumber was deep and dreamless.

At last there was a slight sound, and Felicien suddenly appeared on the
balcony, pale, trembling, and, like herself, looking very worn and thin,
and his countenance distressed. When he saw her reclining in the easy
chair, pitiable and yet so beautiful to look at, he rushed at once into
the chamber, and his heart grew heavy with infinite grief as he went
forward, and, falling on his knees before her, gazed at her with an
expression of utter despair. Could it be that she was so hopelessly ill?
Was it unhappiness that had caused her to be so weak, and to have wasted
way to such a degree that she ap