Page:Harper's New Monthly Magazine - v109.djvu/446



her in the present emergency. They had been born, poor souls, weighing three pounds each, and had died of measles when they were six weeks old, weighing respectively a pound and a half.

A sense of futility in their having been born at all had always hung over madame in her remembrance of them.

Nevertheless, in spite of her inexperience, she felt, with a throb of genuine relief, that here was a chance for atonement—she must do what she could.

She rose and threw on the flannel double-gown that lay every night on exactly the same chair, at exactly the same distance from her hand.

It was one of madame's maxims, confirmed by her rigid pension routine, always, upon retiring for the night, to leave her room in such perfect order that a doctor, called in suddenly, would not fall over anything.

Another of her maxims, akin to this in its pessimistic grasp upon possibilities, was always to dress for the street with a view to being brought home dead. Her grandmother, before her, had done so.

After fastening her double-gown, madame stole out of her room and along the corridor, and knocked at Monsieur le Bébé's door. The old nurse opened it.

"You are alone," madame said to her. "You need help. May I help you?"

Every night after this the two women shared their watch.

Farther and farther into the Valley of Death poor little Monsieur le Bébé made his way—thicker and thicker the shadows grew about him; until suddenly, where they were blackest, as if affrighted