“Come in, I say,” she whispered to the little girl; “come in, and don’t be frightened.  Only don’t look toward the bed or you’ll catch it.”

She thought it decorous to forbid Dede to look at me, but I was convinced that the child was furtively glancing at the corner where I lay, for every now and then I heard her mother rap her knuckles and repeat angrily:  “Get on with your work or you shall leave the room, and the gentleman will come during the night and pull you by the feet.”

The mother and daughter had sat down at our table.  I could plainly hear the click of their scissors as they clipped the lamp shades, which no doubt required very delicate manipulation, for they did not work rapidly.  I counted the shades one by one as they were laid aside, while my anxiety grew more and more intense.

The clicking of the scissors was the only noise in the room, so I concluded that Marguerite had been overcome by fatigue and was dozing.  Twice Simoneau rose, and the torturing thought flashed through me that he might be taking advantage of her slumbers to touch her hair with his lips.  I hardly knew the man and yet felt sure that he loved my wife.  At last little Dede began to giggle, and her laugh exasperated me.

“Why are you sniggering, you idiot?” asked her mother.  “Do you want to be turned out on the landing?  Come, out with it; what makes you laugh so?”

The child stammered:  she had not laughed; she had only coughed, but I felt certain she had seen Simoneau bending over Marguerite and had felt amused.

The lamp had been lit when a knock was heard at the door.

“It must be the doctor at last,” said the old woman.

It was the doctor; he did not apologize for coming so late, for he had no doubt ascended many flights of stairs during the day.  The room being but imperfectly lighted by the lamp, he inquired:  “Is the body here?”

“Yes, it is,” answered Simoneau.

Marguerite had risen, trembling violently.  Mme Gabin dismissed Dede, saying it was useless that a child should be present, and then she tried to lead my wife to the window, to spare her the sight of what was about to take place.

The doctor quickly approached the bed.  I guessed that he was bored, tired and impatient.  Had he touched my wrist?  Had he placed his hand on my heart?  I could not tell, but I fancied that he had only carelessly bent over me.

“Shall I bring the lamp so that you may see better?” asked Simoneau obligingly.

“No it is not necessary,” quietly answered the doctor.

Not necessary!  That man held my life in his hands, and he did not think it worth while to proceed to a careful examination!  I was not dead!  I wanted to cry out that I was not dead!

“At what o’clock did he die?” asked the doctor.

“At six this morning,” volunteered Simoneau.

A feeling of frenzy and rebellion rose within me, bound as I was in seemingly iron chains.  Oh, for the power of uttering one word, of moving a single limb!