“They haven’t spared the material,” said one of the undertaker’s men in a gruff voice.  “The box is too long.”

“He’ll have all the more room,” said the other, laughing.

I was not heavy, and they chuckled over it since they had three flights of stairs to descend.  As they were seizing me by the shoulders and feet I heard Mme Gabin fly into a violent passion.

“You cursed little brat,” she screamed, “what do you mean by poking your nose where you’re not wanted?  Look here, I’ll teach you to spy and pry.”

Dede had slipped her tousled head through the doorway to see how the gentleman was being put into the box.  Two ringing slaps resounded, however, by an explosion of sobs.  And as soon as the mother returned she began to gossip about her daughter for the benefit of the two men who were settling me in the coffin.

“She is only ten, you know.  She is not a bad girl, but she is frightfully inquisitive.  I do not beat her often; only I will be obeyed.”

“Oh,” said one of the men, “all kids are alike.  Whenever there is a corpse lying about they always want to see it.”

I was commodiously stretched out, and I might have thought myself still in bed, had it not been that my left arm felt a trifle cramped from being squeezed against a board.  The men had been right.  I was pretty comfortable inside on account of my diminutive stature.

“Stop!” suddenly exclaimed Mme Gabin.  “I promised his wife to put a pillow under his head.”

The men, who were in a hurry, stuffed in the pillow roughly.  One of them, who had mislaid his hammer, began to swear.  He had left the tool below and went to fetch it, dropping the lid, and when two sharp blows of the hammer drove in the first nail, a shock ran through my being—­I had ceased to live.  The nails then entered in rapid succession with a rhythmical cadence.  It was as if some packers had been closing a case of dried fruit with easy dexterity.  After that such sounds as reached me were deadened and strangely prolonged, as if the deal coffin had been changed into a huge musical box.  The last words spoken in the room of the Rue Dauphine—­at least the last ones that I heard distinctly—­were uttered by Mme Gabin.

“Mind the staircase,” she said; “the banister of the second flight isn’t safe, so be careful.”

While I was being carried down I experienced a sensation similar to that of pitching as when one is on board a ship in a rough sea.  However, from that moment my impressions became more and more vague.  I remember that the only distinct thought that still possessed me was an imbecile, impulsive curiosity as to the road by which I should be taken to the cemetery.  I was not acquainted with a single street of Paris, and I was ignorant of the position of the large burial grounds (though of course I had occasionally heard their names), and yet every effort of my mind was directed toward ascertaining whether we were turning to the right or to the left.  Meanwhile the jolting of the hearse over the paving stones, the rumbling of passing vehicles, the steps of the foot passengers, all created a confused clamor, intensified by the acoustical properties of the coffin.