The old woman seemed to reflect and presently resumed:  “Listen to me, Monsieur Simoneau.  You must take her off to my room.  I wouldn’t have her stop here.  It is for her own good.  When she is out of the way we’ll get it done in a jiffy.”

These words pierced my heart, and my anguish was intense when I realized that a struggle was actually taking place.  Simoneau had walked up to Marguerite, imploring her to leave the room.

“Do, for pity’s sake, come with me!” he pleaded.  “Spare yourself useless pain.”

“No, no!” she cried.  “I will remain till the last minute.  Remember that I have only him in the world, and when he is gone I shall be all alone!”

From the bedside Mme Gabin was prompting the young man.

“Don’t parley—­take hold of her, carry her off in your arms.”

Was Simoneau about to lay his hands on Marguerite and bear her away?  She screamed.  I wildly endeavored to rise, but the springs of my limbs were broken.  I remained rigid, unable to lift my eyelids to see what was going on.  The struggle continued, and my wife clung to the furniture, repeating, “Oh, don’t, don’t!  Have mercy!  Let me go!  I will not—­”

He must have lifted her in his stalwart arms, for I heard her moaning like a child.  He bore her away; her sobs were lost in the distance, and I fancied I saw them both—­he, tall and strong, pressing her to his breast; she, fainting, powerless and conquered, following him wherever he listed.

“Drat it all!  What a to-do!” muttered Mme Gabin.  “Now for the tug of war, as the coast is clear at last.”

In my jealous madness I looked upon this incident as a monstrous outrage.  I had not been able to see Marguerite for twenty-four hours, but at least I had still heard her voice.  Now even this was denied me; she had been torn away; a man had eloped with her even before I was laid under the sod.  He was alone with her on the other side of the wall, comforting her—­embracing her, perhaps!

But the door opened once more, and heavy footsteps shook the floor.

“Quick, make haste,” repeated Mme Gabin.  “Get it done before the lady comes back.”

She was speaking to some strangers, who merely answered her with uncouth grunts.

“You understand,” she went on, “I am not a relation; I’m only a neighbor.  I have no interest in the matter.  It is out of pure good nature that I have mixed myself up in their affairs.  And I ain’t overcheerful, I can tell you.  Yes, yes, I sat up the whole blessed night—­it was pretty cold, too, about four o’clock.  That’s a fact.  Well, I have always been a fool—­I’m too soft-hearted.”

The coffin had been dragged into the center of the room.  As I had not awakened I was condemned.  All clearness departed from my ideas; everything seemed to revolve in a black haze, and I experienced such utter lassitude that it seemed almost a relief to leave off hoping.