“Poor gentleman,” she muttered.  “Luckily I heard you sobbing, poor dear!” Suddenly the vague light which my left eye had detected vanished.  Mme Gabin had just closed my eyelids, but I had not felt her finger on my face.  When I understood this I felt chilled.

The door had opened again, and Dede, the child of ten, now rushed in, calling out in her shrill voice:  “Mother, Mother!  Ah, I knew you would be here!  Look here, there’s the money—­three francs and four sous.  I took back three dozen lamp shades.”

“Hush, hush!  Hold your tongue,” vainly repeated the mother, who, as the little girl chattered on, must have pointed to the bed, for I guessed that the child felt perplexed and was backing toward the door.

“Is the gentleman asleep?” she whispered.

“Yes, yes—­go and play,” said Mme Gabin.

But the child did not go.  She was, no doubt, staring at me with widely opened eyes, startled and vaguely comprehending.  Suddenly she seemed convulsed with terror and ran out, upsetting a chair.

“He is dead, Mother; he is dead!” she gasped.

Profound silence followed.  Marguerite, lying back in the armchair, had left off crying.  Mme Gabin was still rummaging about the room and talking under her breath.

“Children know everything nowadays.  Look at that girl.  Heaven knows how carefully she’s brought up!  When I send her on an errand or take the shades back I calculate the time to a minute so that she can’t loiter about, but for all that she learns everything.  She saw at a glance what had happened here—­and yet I never showed her but one corpse, that of her uncle Francois, and she was then only four years old.  Ah well, there are no children left—­it can’t be helped.”

She paused and without any transition passed to another subject.

“I say, dearie, we must think of the formalities—­there’s the declaration at the municipal offices to be made and the seeing about the funeral.  You are not in a fit state to attend to business.  What do you say if I look in at Monsieur Simoneau’s to find out if he’s at home?”

Marguerite did not reply.  It seemed to me that I watched her from afar and at times changed into a subtle flame hovering above the room, while a stranger lay heavy and unconscious on my bed.  I wished that Marguerite had declined the assistance of Simoneau.  I had seen him three or four times during my brief illness, for he occupied a room close to ours and had been civil and neighborly.  Mme Gabin had told us that he was merely making a short stay in Paris, having come to collect some old debts due to his father, who had settled in the country and recently died.  He was a tall, strong, handsome young man, and I hated him, perhaps on account of his healthy appearance.  On the previous evening he had come in to make inquiries, and I had much disliked seeing him at Marguerite’s side; she had looked so fair and pretty, and he had gazed so intently into her face when she smilingly thanked him for his kindness.