I knew who it must be--my husband's poor little sister,
Madame d'Aubepine, and I held my arm round her with an impulse of
affection, as something that was his; but before all was over, I was
sure that she was becoming faint, and at last I only moved just in
time to receive her in my lap and arms, as she sank down nearly, if
not quite, unconscious.
I tore back the heavy veil that was suffocating her, and saw a tiny
thin white face, not half so large as my little Gaspard's round rosy
one. Numbers of black forms hovered about with water and essences;
and one tall figure bent to lift the poor child from me, apologizing
with a tone of reproof, and declaring that Madame la Comtesse was
ashamed to inconvenience Madame.
'No,' I said; 'one sister could not inconvenience another,' and I
felt the feeble hand stealing round my waist, and saw a sort of smile
on the thin little lips, which brought back one look of my
Philippe's. I threw off my own veil, and raised her in my arms so as
to kiss her, and in that embrace I did indeed gain a sister.
I did not heed the scolding and the murmuring; I lifted her; she was
very small, and light as a feather; and I was not merely tall, but
very strong, so I carried her easily to a chamber, which one of the
nuns opened for us, and laid her on the bed. She clung to me, and
when some one brought wine, I made her drink it, and prayed that they
would leave us to ourselves a little while.
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