“Ah, here is Monsieur Simoneau,” said Mme Gabin, introducing him.

He gently pushed the door ajar, and as soon as Marguerite saw him enter she burst into a flood of tears.  The presence of a friend, of the only person she knew in Paris besides the old woman, recalled her bereavement.  I could not see the young man, but in the darkness that encompassed me I conjured up his appearance.  I pictured him distinctly, grave and sad at finding poor Marguerite in such distress.  How lovely she must have looked with her golden hair unbound, her pale face and her dear little baby hands burning with fever!

“I am at your disposal, madame,” he said softly.  “Pray allow me to manage everything.”

She only answered him with broken words, but as the young man was leaving, accompanied by Mme Gabin, I heard the latter mention money.  These things were always expensive, she said, and she feared that the poor little body hadn’t a farthing—­anyhow, he might ask her.  But Simoneau silenced the old woman; he did not want to have the widow worried; he was going to the municipal office and to the undertaker’s.

When silence reigned once more I wondered if my nightmare would last much longer.  I was certainly alive, for I was conscious of passing incidents, and I began to realize my condition.  I must have fallen into one of those cataleptic states that I had read of.  As a child I had suffered from syncopes which had lasted several hours, but surely my heart would beat anew, my blood circulate and my muscles relax.  Yes, I should wake up and comfort Marguerite, and, reasoning thus, I tried to be patient.

Time passed.  Mme Gabin had brought in some breakfast, but Marguerite refused to taste any food.  Later on the afternoon waned.  Through the open window I heard the rising clamor of the Rue Dauphine.  By and by a slight ringing of the brass candlestick on the marble-topped table made me think that a fresh candle had been lighted.  At last Simoneau returned.

“Well?” whispered the old woman.

“It is all settled,” he answered; “the funeral is ordered for tomorrow at eleven.  There is nothing for you to do, and you needn’t talk of these things before the poor lady.”

Nevertheless, Mme Gabin remarked:  “The doctor of the dead hasn’t come yet.”

Simoneau took a seat beside Marguerite and after a few words of encouragement remained silent.  The funeral was to take place at eleven!  Those words rang in my brain like a passing bell.  And the doctor coming—­the doctor of the dead, as Mme Gabin had called him.  He could not possibly fail to find out that I was only in a state of lethargy; he would do whatever might be necessary to rouse me, so I longed for his arrival with feverish anxiety.

The day was drawing to a close.  Mme Gabin, anxious to waste no time, had brought in her lamp shades and summoned Dede without asking Marguerite’s permission.  “To tell the truth,” she observed, “I do not like to leave children too long alone.”