“Come, my dear,” she said.  “It is wrong of you not to take it while it is hot.  It would cheer you up.”

She was addressing Marguerite, and a slow trickling sound as of something filtering indicated that she had been making some coffee.

“I don’t mind owning,” she continued, “that I needed it.  At my age sitting up is trying.  The night seems so dreary when there is a misfortune in the house.  Do have a cup of coffee, my dear—­just a drop.”

She persuaded Marguerite to taste it.

“Isn’t it nice and hot?” she continued, “and doesn’t it set one up?  Ah, you’ll be wanting all your strength presently for what you’ve got to go through today.  Now if you were sensible you’d step into my room and just wait there.”

“No, I want to stay here,” said Marguerite resolutely.

Her voice, which I had not heard since the previous evening, touched me strangely.  It was changed, broken as by tears.  To feel my dear wife near me was a last consolation.  I knew that her eyes were fastened on me and that she was weeping with all the anguish of her heart.

The minutes flew by.  An inexplicable noise sounded from beyond the door.  It seemed as if some people were bringing a bulky piece of furniture upstairs and knocking against the walls as they did so.  Suddenly I understood, as I heard Marguerite begin to sob; it was the coffin.

“You are too early,” said Mme Gabin crossly.  “Put it behind the bed.”

What o’clock was it?  Nine, perhaps.  So the coffin had come.  Amid the opaque night around me I could see it plainly, quite new, with roughly planed boards.  Heavens!  Was this the end then?  Was I to be borne off in that box which I realized was lying at my feet?

However, I had one supreme joy.  Marguerite, in spite of her weakness, insisted upon discharging all the last offices.  Assisted by the old woman, she dressed me with all the tenderness of a wife and a sister.  Once more I felt myself in her arms as she clothed me in various garments.  She paused at times, overcome by grief; she clasped me convulsively, and her tears rained on my face.  Oh, how I longed to return her embrace and cry, “I live!” And yet I was lying there powerless, motionless, inert!

“You are foolish,” suddenly said Mme Gabin; “it is all wasted.”

“Never mind,” answered Marguerite, sobbing.  “I want him to wear his very best things.”

I understood that she was dressing me in the clothes I had worn on my wedding day.  I had kept them carefully for great occasions.  When she had finished she fell back exhausted in the armchair.

Simoneau now spoke; he had probably just entered the room.

“They are below,” he whispered.

“Well, it ain’t any too soon,” answered Mme Gabin, also lowering her voice.  “Tell them to come up and get it over.”

“But I dread the despair of the poor little wife.”