he not smile in his
immobility, happy at last, and able to die, now that he felt her here
beside him? Then, overcome by the dreadful reality, she burst again into
wild sobs.

Martine entered, bringing a lamp, which she placed on a corner of
the chimney-piece, and she heard Ramond, who was watching Clotilde,
disquieted at seeing her passionate grief, say:

"I shall take you away from the room if you give way like this. Consider
that you have some one else to think of now."

The servant had been surprised at certain words which she had overheard
by chance during the day. Suddenly she understood, and she turned paler
even than before, and on her way out of the room, she stopped at the
door to hear more.

"The key of the press is under his pillow," said Ramond, lowering his
voice; "he told me repeatedly to tell you so. You know what you have to
do?"

Clotilde made an effort to remember and to answer.

"What I have to do? About the papers, is it not? Yes, yes, I remember; I
am to keep the envelopes and to give you the other manuscripts. Have no
fear, I am quite calm, I will be very reasonable. But I will not leave
him; I will spend the night here very quietly, I promise you."

She was so unhappy, she seemed so resolved to watch by him, to remain
with him, until he should be taken away, that the young physician
allowed her to have her way.

"Well, I will leave you now. They will be expecting me at home. Then
there are all sorts of formalities to be gone through--to give notice
at the mayor's office, the funeral, of which I wish to spare you the
details. Trouble yourself about nothing. Everything will be arranged
to-morrow when I return."

He embraced her once more and then went away. And it was only then that
Martine left the room, behind him, and locking the hall door she ran out
into the darkness.

Clotilde was now alone in the chamber; and all around and about her, in
the unbroken silence, she felt the emptiness of the house. Clotilde was
alone with the dead Pascal. She placed a chair at the head of the bed
and sat there motionless, alone. On arriving, she had merely removed her
hat: now, perceiving that she still had on her gloves, she took them
off also. But she kept on her traveling dress, crumpled and dusty, after
twenty hours of railway travel. No doubt Father Durieu had brought the
trunks long ago, and left them downstairs. But it did not occur to her,
nor had she the strength to wash herself and change