This room was Maurice’s bedchamber.  The large curtains had been closely drawn, and tapers were burning near the bed, casting a soft light on the deceased’s face, which appeared very calm, very white, the eyes closed as if in sleep.  Between the clasped hands rested a crucifix, and with the roses scattered over the sheet the bed was like a couch of springtide.  The odor of the flowers, mingling with that of the burning wax, seemed rather oppressive amid the deep and tragic stillness.  Not a breath stirred the tall, erect flames of the tapers, burning in the semi-obscurity, amid which the bed alone showed forth.

When Mathieu and Marianne had gone in, they perceived their daughter-in-law, Charlotte, behind a screen near the door.  Lighted by a little lamp, she sat there with a sketching-block on her knees, making a drawing of Maurice’s head as it rested among the roses.  Hard and anguish-bringing as was such work for one with so young a heart, she had nevertheless yielded to the mother’s ardent entreaties.  And for three hours past, pale, looking wondrously beautiful, her face showing all the flower of youth, her blue eyes opening widely under her fine golden hair, she had been there diligently working, striving to do her best.  When Mathieu and Marianne approached her she would not speak, but simply nodded.  Still a little color came to her cheeks, and her eyes smiled.  And when the others, after lingering there for a moment in sorrowful contemplation, had quietly returned to the drawing-room, she resumed her work alone, in the presence of the dead, among the roses and the tapers.

Morange was still walking the drawing-room like a lost, wandering phantom.  Mathieu remained standing there, while Marianne sat down near the folding doors.  Not another word was exchanged; the spell of waiting continued amid the oppressive silence of the dim, closed room.  When some ten minutes had elapsed, two other visitors arrived, a lady and a gentleman, whom the Froments could not at first recognize.  Morange bowed and received them in his dazed way.  Then, as the lady did not release her hold of the gentleman’s hand, but led him along, as if he were blind, between the articles of furniture, so that he might not knock against them, Marianne and Mathieu realized that the new comers were the Angelins.

Since the previous winter they had sold their little house at Janville to fix themselves in Paris, for a last misfortune had befallen them—­the failure of a great banking house had carried away almost the whole of their modest fortune.  The wife had fortunately secured a post as one of the delegates of the Poor Relief Board, an inspectorship with various duties, such as watching over the mothers and children assisted by the board, and reporting thereon.  And she was wont to say, with a sad smile, that this work of looking after the little ones was something of a consolation for her, since it was now certain that she would never have a child of her own.  As for her husband, whose eyesight was failing more and more, he had been obliged to relinquish painting altogether, and he dragged out his days in morose desolation, his life wrecked, annihilated.