“I dare not intrude upon such grief as this,” said Genestas to Benassis.

“I always go to visit a bereaved family,” the doctor answered, “either to certify the death, or to see that no mischance caused by grief has befallen the living.  You need not hesitate to come with me.  The scene is impressive, and there will be such a great many people that no one will notice your presence.”

As Genestas followed the doctor, he found, in fact, that the first room was full of relations of the dead.  They passed through the crowd and stationed themselves at the door of a bedroom that opened out of the great hall which served the whole family for a kitchen and a sitting-room; the whole colony, it should rather be called, for the great length of the table showed that some forty people lived in the house.  Benassis’ arrival interrupted the discourse of a tall, simply-dressed woman, with thin locks of hair, who held the dead man’s hand in hers in a way that spoke eloquently.

The dead master of the house had been arrayed in his best clothes, and now lay stretched out cold and stiff upon the bed.  They had drawn the curtains aside; the thought of heaven seemed to brood over the quiet face and the white hair—­it was like the closing scene of a drama.  On either side of the bed stood the children and the nearest relations of the husband and wife.  These last stood in a line on either side; the wife’s kin upon the left, and those of her husband on the right.  Both men and women were kneeling in prayer, and almost all of them were in tears.  Tall candles stood about the bed.  The cure of the parish and his assistants had taken their places in the middle of the room, beside the bier.  There was something tragical about the scene, with the head of the family lying before the coffin, which was waiting to be closed down upon him forever.

“Ah!” cried the widow, turning as she saw Benassis, “if the skill of the best of men could not save you, my dear lord, it was because it was ordained in heaven that you should precede me to the tomb!  Yes, this hand of yours, that used to press mine so kindly, is cold!  I have lost my dear helpmate for ever, and our household has lost its beloved head, for truly you were the guide of us all!  Alas! there is not one of those who are weeping with me who has not known all the worth of your nature, and felt the light of your soul, but I alone knew all the patience and the kindness of your heart.  Oh! my husband, my husband! must I bid you farewell for ever?  Farewell to you, our stay and support!  Farewell to you, my dear master!  And we, your children,—­for to each of us you gave the same fatherly love,—­all we, your children, have lost our father!”

The widow flung herself upon the dead body and clasped it in a tight embrace, as if her kisses and the tears with which she covered it could give it warmth again; during the pause, came the wail of the servants: 

“The master is dead!”