Page:The Bohemians of the Latin Quarter.djvu/298

The doctor arrived at that moment and forced her to go to bed again.

“Jacques,” whispered he in the artist’s ear,” “you must summon up your courage. All is over; Francine is dying.”

Jacques burst into tears.

“You may give her whatever she asks for now,” continued the doctor, “there is no hope.”

Francine heard with her eyes what the doctor had said to her lover.

“Do not listen to him,” she exclaimed, holding out her arm to Jacques; “do not listen to him; he is not speaking the truth. We will go out to-morrow—it is All Saints’ Day; it will be cold—go and buy me a muff, I beg of you. I am afraid of chapped hands this winter.”

Jacques was going out with his friend, but Francine detained the doctor.

“Go and get my muff,” said she to Jacques; “get a nice one, so that it may last a good while.”

When she was alone she said to the doctor,

“Oh! sir, I am going to die, and I know it. But before I pass away give me something to give me strength for a night, I beg of you; make me well for one more night, and let me die afterwards, since God does not wish me to live longer.”

As the doctor was doing his best to console her, the wind carried into the room and cast upon the sick girl’s bed a yellow leaf, torn from the tree in the little courtyard.

Francine opened the curtain, and saw the tree entirely bare.

“It is the last,” said she, putting the leaf under her pillow.

“You will not die till to-morrow,” said the doctor; “you have a night before you.”