Evidently the doctor had been here during Ravinet's absence. He had
bled the poor girl, prescribed some medicines, and left again, with the
assurance that nothing more was needed but perfect quiet.

In fact, there was no trace left of the sufferings and the terrible
danger from which the patient had so marvellously escaped, except the
deep pallor of her face. Stretched out at full-length on her comfortable
bed with its thick mattresses and snow-white sheets, her head propped
up high on a couple of pillows, she was breathing freely, as was easily
seen by the steady, regular rising and falling of her bosom under the
cover.

But life and consciousness had also brought back to her a sense of the
horror of her position, and of her capacity for suffering.

Her brow resting on her arm, which was almost concealed by masses of
golden hair, immovable, and her eyes fixed steadily upon infinite space,
as if trying to pierce the darkness of the future, she would have looked
like a statue of sorrow rather than of resignation, but for the big
tears which were slowly dropping down her cheeks.

Her exquisite beauty looked almost ethereal under the circumstances; and
Papa Ravinet, when he saw her, remained fixed by admiration, standing
upon the threshold of the open door. But it occurred to him at once that
he might be looked upon as a spy, and that his feelings would be sure
to be misinterpreted. He coughed, therefore, to give warning, and then
stepped in.

At the noise he made, Henrietta roused herself. When she saw the old
merchant, she said in a faint, feeble voice,--