The son-in-law, after a long silence, said: 

“There’s nothing more to do; I can’t help him.  It’s a nuisance, just the same, because the weather is good and we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

His wife seemed annoyed at this idea.  She reflected a few moments and then said: 

“He won’t be buried till Saturday, and that will give you all day tomorrow.”

The peasant thought the matter over and answered: 

“Yes, but to-morrow I’ll have to invite the people to the funeral.  That means five or six hours to go round to Tourville and Manetot, and to see everybody.”

The woman, after meditating two or three minutes, declared: 

“It isn’t three o’clock yet.  You could begin this evening and go all round the country to Tourville.  You can just as well say that he’s dead, seem’ as he’s as good as that now.”

The man stood perplexed for a while, weighing the pros and cons of the idea.  At last he declared: 

“Well, I’ll go!”

He was leaving the room, but came back after a minute’s hesitation: 

“As you haven’t got anythin’ to do you might shake down some apples to bake and make four dozen dumplings for those who come to the funeral, for one must have something to cheer them.  You can light the fire with the wood that’s under the shed.  It’s dry.”

He left the room, went back into the kitchen, opened the cupboard, took out a six-pound loaf of bread, cut off a slice, and carefully gathered the crumbs in the palm of his hand and threw them into his mouth, so as not to lose anything.  Then, with the end of his knife, he scraped out a little salt butter from the bottom of an earthen jar, spread it on his bread and began to eat slowly, as he did everything.

He recrossed the farmyard, quieted the dog, which had started barking again, went out on the road bordering on his ditch, and disappeared in the direction of Tourville.

As soon as she was alone, the woman began to work.  She uncovered the meal-bin and made the dough for the dumplings.  She kneaded it a long time, turning it over and over again, punching, pressing, crushing it.  Finally she made a big, round, yellow-white ball, which she placed on the corner of the table.

Then she went to get her apples, and, in order not to injure the tree with a pole, she climbed up into it by a ladder.  She chose the fruit with care, only taking the ripe ones, and gathering them in her apron.

A voice called from the road: 

“Hey, Madame Chicot!”

She turned round.  It was a neighbor, Osime Favet, the mayor, on his way to fertilize his fields, seated on the manure-wagon, with his feet hanging over the side.  She turned round and answered: 

“What can I do for you, Maitre Osime?”

“And how is the father?”

She cried: 

“He is as good as dead.  The funeral is Saturday at seven, because there’s lots of work to be done.”