“Mother of God! Save him! Save him!”
It had been a long time since a prayer had passed Mimi’s lips. But now she prayed—prayed with the fervour of Luther, of Savonarola, of St. John, of all the martyrs, yea, with a fervour greater than all of these, the plea of a mother for her child. …
All night she alternately tossed in her narrow bed or sat by the window looking into the darkness outside. Above, a pale moon was sheathed in dusky blue swirls of clouds, so delicate and wispy they looked like graceful twistings of chiffon, but this beauty she did not see. From near at hand the fast-dying noises of the city came to her, the hum imperceptibly fading away as the crowds thinned out, but she heard none of these. Any minute Jean might be dying, she thought with a shiver. And then she would hurry down the stairs to telephone the hospital. Always she received the same answer, he’s resting easily.
Though she tried to keep the thought from her mind, she knew she had come to the parting of the ways. I wonder I ever thought I could go through with it, she reflected. For my own sake I don’t care. But I’m not making enough money to keep us and I won’t be able to save anything at this rate for the future—for Petit Jean’s future, she amended. Rent due Mrs. Williams, the surgeon’s fee, bills for the hospital. She cudgelled her brains for some way of making money. The Hunters? No! Mrs. Daquin? A thousand times no! The man in Germantown? A bitter smile came over her face. It wouldn’t be wise for him to make such an offer now.
The thought brought her to herself with a shock. Defiantly she answered her own question—I’d do even that if it would save Jean! She had reached the stage of desperation. The long months of anxious toil and uncertainty, of worry and undernourishment, had gathered their