you know what that is?"

Frederick replied without hesitation: "Certainly," adding that it was
nothing.

But in the evening he was alarmed by the child's debilitated look and by
the progress of these whitish spots, resembling mould, as if life,
already abandoning this little frame, had left now nothing but matter
from which vegetation was sprouting. His hands were cold; he was no
longer able to drink anything; and the nurse, another woman, whom the
porter had gone and taken on chance at an office, kept repeating:

"It seems to me he's very low, very low!"

[L] This disease, consisting of ulceration of the tongue and palate, is
also called _aphthae_--TRANSLATOR.

Rosanette was up all night with the child.

In the morning she went to look for Frederick.

"Just come and look at him. He doesn't move any longer."

In fact, he was dead. She took him up, shook him, clasped him in her
arms, calling him most tender names, covered him with kisses, broke into
sobs, turned herself from one side to the other in a state of
distraction, tore her hair, uttered a number of shrieks, and then let
herself sink on the edge of the divan, where she lay with her mouth open
and a flood of tears rushing from her wildly-glaring eyes.

Then a torpor fell upon her, and all became still in the apartment. The
furniture was overturned. Two or three napkins were lying on the floor.
It struck six. The night-light had gone out.

Frederick, as he gazed at the scene, could almost believe that he was
dreaming. His heart was oppressed with anguish. It seemed to him that
this death was only a beginning, and that behind it was a worse
calamity, which was just about to come on.

Suddenly, Rosanette said in an appealing tone:

"We'll preserve the body--shall we not?"

She wished to have the dead child embalmed. There were many objections
to this. The principal one, in Frederick's opinion, was that the thing
was impracticable in the case of children so young. A portrait would be
better. She adopted this idea. He wrote a line to Pellerin, and Delphine
hastened to deliver it.

Pellerin arrived speedily, anxious by this display of zeal to efface
all recollection of his former conduct. The first thing he said was:

"Poor little angel! Ah, my God, what a misfortune!"

But gradually (the artist in him getting the upper hand) he declared
that nothing could be made out of those yellowish eyes, that livid face,
that it was a real case of still-life,