"
"Where are _his_ things?" said the old woman unheedingly. "I must go up
to the attics."
A vision of those broken toys came to Fanny, the dusty heap of horses,
dolls and boxes--the poor disorder.
"You mustn't, yet!" she cried with feeling. "Rest first. Sit here longer
first. Or go another day!"
"Have you touched _them_?" cried Philippe's mother, rising from the
chair. "I must go at once, at once----" but even as she tried to cross
the room she leant heavily upon the table and put her hand to her heart.
"Get me water, Elsie," she said, and threw up her veil. Her ruined face
was grey even at the lips; her eyes were caverns, worn by the dropping
of water, her mouth was folded tightly that nothing kind or hopeful, or
happy might come out of it again. Elsie ran to the washing-stand.
Unfortunately she seized the glass with the golden scrolling, and when
she held it to the lips of her mistress those lips refused it.
"_That_, too, that glass of mine! Elsie, I wish this woman gone. Why
don't you get up? Where are your clothes? Why don't you dress and go--"
"Madame, hush, hush, you are ill."
"Ah!" dragging herself weakly to the door, "I must take an inventory.
That is what I should have done before! If I don't make a list at once I
shall lose something!"
"Take an inventory!" exclaimed the _concierge_ mockingly, as she
followed her.
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