the clock. And when the last sound of the seven strokes,
each of which had fallen like a knell upon her heart, had died away, she
turned her eyes again on the motionless face of Pascal, and once more
she abandoned herself to her grief.

It was in the midst of this ever-increasing prostration that Clotilde, a
few minutes later, heard a sudden sound of sobbing. Some one had rushed
into the room; she looked round and saw her Grandmother Felicite. But
she did not stir, she did not speak, so benumbed was she with grief.
Martine, anticipating the orders which Clotilde would undoubtedly have
given her, had hurried to old Mme. Rougon's, to give her the dreadful
news; and the latter, dazed at first by the suddenness of the
catastrophe, and afterward greatly agitated, had hurried to the house,
overflowing with noisy grief. She burst into tears at sight of her son,
and then embraced Clotilde, who returned her kiss, as in a dream. And
from this instant the latter, without emerging from the overwhelming
grief in which she isolated herself, felt that she was no longer alone,
hearing a continual stir and bustle going on around her. It was Felicite
crying, coming in and going out on tiptoe, setting things in order,
spying about, whispering, dropping into a chair, to get up again a
moment afterward, after saying that she was going to die in it. At nine
o'clock she made a last effort to persuade her granddaughter to eat
something. Twice already she had lectured her in a low voice; she came
now again to whisper to her:

"Clotilde, my dear, I assure you you are wrong. You must keep up your
strength or you will never be able to hold out."

But the young woman, with a shake of her head, again refused.

"Come, you breakfasted at the buffet at Marseilles, I suppose, but you
have eaten nothing since. Is that reasonable? I do not wish you to fall
ill also. Martine has some broth. I have told her to make a light soup
and to roast a chicken. Go down and eat a mouthful, only a mouthful, and
I will remain here."

With the same patient gesture Clotilde again refused. At last she
faltered:

"Do not ask me, grandmother, I entreat you. I could not; it would choke
me."

She did not speak again, falling back into her former state of apathy.
She did not sleep, however, her wide open eyes were fixed persistently
on Pascal's face. For hours she sat there, motionless, erect, rigid, as
if her spirit were far away with the dead. At ten o'clock she hear