en, as Marianne in surprise began to put some
questions, the girl explained matters: "Madame took a box of drawing
materials with her. I fancy that she is painting a portrait of the poor
young man who is dead."

As Mathieu and Marianne crossed the courtyard of the works, they felt
oppressed by the grave-like silence which reigned in that great city of
labor, usually so full of noise and bustle. Death had suddenly passed
by, and all the ardent life had at once ceased, the machinery had become
cold and mute, the workshops silent and deserted. There was not a sound,
not a soul, not a puff of that vapor which was like the very breath of
the place. Its master dead, it had died also. And the distress of the
Froments increased when they passed from the works into the house, amid
absolute solitude; the connecting gallery was wrapt in slumber, the
staircase quivered amid the heavy silence, all the doors were open, as
in some uninhabited house, long since deserted. They found no servant
in the antechamber, and even the dim drawing-room, where the blinds of
embroidered muslin were lowered, while the armchairs were arranged in a
circle, as on reception days, when numerous visitors were expected, at
first seemed to them to be empty. But at last they detected a shadowy
form moving slowly to and fro in the middle of the room. It was Morange,
bareheaded and frock-coated; he had hastened thither at the first news
with the same air as if he had been repairing to his office. He seemed
to be at home; it was he who received the visitors in a scared way,
overcome as he was by this sudden demise, which recalled to him his
daughter's abominable death. His heart-wound had reopened; he was livid,
all in disorder, with his long gray beard streaming down, while he
stepped hither and thither without a pause, making all the surrounding
grief his own.

As soon as he recognized the Froments he also spoke the words which came
from every tongue: "What a frightful misfortune, an only son!"

Then he pressed their hands, and whispered and explained that Madame
Beauchene, feeling quite exhausted, had withdrawn for a few moments, and
that Beauchene and Blaise were making necessary arrangements downstairs.
And then, resuming his maniacal perambulations, he pointed towards an
adjoining room, the folding doors of which were wide open.

"He is there, on the bed where he died. There are flowers; it looks very
nice. You may go in."

This room was Maurice's be