Marie-Louise and Philippe-Auguste, however, had now left the house, and were running up and down the street.  They were soon surrounded by their playmates, by little girls, especially, who were older, and who were much more interested to inquire into all the mysteries of life, asking questions after the manner of persons of great importance.

“Then your grandmother is dead?” “Yes, she died yesterday evening.”  “How, in what way did she meet her death?”

Then Marie began to explain, telling all about the candles and the cadaverous face.  It was not long before great curiosity was aroused in the breasts of all the children, and they asked to be allowed to go upstairs to look at the departed.

It was not long before Marie-Louise had arranged a group for a first visit, consisting of five girls and two boys—­the biggest and the most courageous.  She made them take off their shoes so that they might not be discovered.  The troupe filed into the house and mounted the stairs as stealthily as an army of mice.

Once in the chamber, the little girl, imitating her mother, regulated the ceremony.  She solemnly walked in advance of her comrades, went down on her knees, made the sign of the cross, moistened her lips with the holy water, stood up again, sprinkled the bed, and while the children, all crowded together, were approaching—­frightened and curious, and eager to look at the face and hands of the deceased—­she began suddenly to simulate sobbing, and to bury her eyes in her little handkerchief.  Then, becoming instantly consoled, on thinking of the other children who were downstairs waiting at the door, she withdrew in haste, returning in a minute with another group, then a third, for all the little ruffians of the country-side, even to the little beggars in rags, had congregated in order to participate in this new pleasure; and each time she repeated her mother’s grimaces with absolute perfection.

At length, however, she became tired.  Some game or other attracted the children away from the house, and the old grandmother was left alone, forgotten suddenly by everybody.

A dismal gloom pervaded the chamber, and upon the dry and rigid features of the corpse, the dying flames of the candles cast occasional gleams of light.

Towards 8 o’clock, Caravan ascended to the chamber of death, closed the windows, and renewed the candles.  On entering now he was quite composed, evidently accustomed already to regard the corpse as though it had been there for a month.  He even went the length of declaring that, as yet, there was not any signs of decomposition, making this remark just at the moment when he and his wife were about to sit down at table.  “Pshaw!” she responded, “she is now in wood; she will keep there for a year.”

The soup was eaten without a word being uttered by anyone.  The children, who had been free all day, now worn out by fatigue, were sleeping soundly on their chairs, and nobody ventured on breaking the silence.