At last she became conscious again — conscious that she was tired and aching, and yet better than she had been. She felt very, very weak. She looked round, and did not feel at all surprised to see her mother sitting by her bedside with a stout man whom she did not know. She had forgotten how old she was, and thought she was a little child again, for her memory was entirely gone.
“See, she is conscious,” said the stout man.
The baroness began to cry, and the big man said:
“Come, come, madame le baronne; I assure you there is no longer any danger, but you must not talk to her; just let her sleep.”
It seemed to Jeanne that she lay for a long time in a doze, which became a heavy sleep if she tried to think of anything. She had a vague idea that the past contained something dreadful, and sh
