“I went downstairs and came up again with my mother, who was followed by the abbe, and I fancied that I heard other footsteps behind us.  As soon as we were in the kitchen, Melanie offered us chairs, and we all four sat down to deliberate.

“‘Is he very ill?’ my mother asked.  ’Oh! yes, madame; he will not be here long.’  ‘Does he seem disposed to receive a visit from a priest?’ ’Oh!  I do not think so.’  ‘Can I see him?’ ’Well—­yes madame—­only —­only—­those young ladies are with him.’  ‘What young ladies?’ ‘Why—­why—­his lady friends, of course.’  ‘Oh!’ Mamma had grown scarlet, and the Abbe Poivron had lowered his eyes.

“The affair began to amuse me, and I said:  ’Suppose I go in first?  I shall see how he receives me, and perhaps I shall be able to prepare him to receive you.’

“My mother, who did not suspect any trick, replied:  ‘Yes, go, my dear.’  But a woman’s voice cried out:  ‘Melanie!’

“The servant ran out and said:  ‘What do you want, Mademoiselle Claire?’ ‘The omelette; quickly.’  ‘In a minute, mademoiselle.’  And coming back to us, she explained this summons.

“They had ordered a cheese omelette at two o’clock as a slight collation.  And she at once began to break the eggs into a salad bowl, and to whip them vigorously, while I went out on the landing and pulled the bell, so as to formally announce my arrival.  Melanie opened the door to me, and made me sit down in an ante-room, while she went to tell my uncle that I had come; then she came back and asked me to go in, while the abbe hid behind the door, so that he might appear at the first signal.

“I was certainly very much surprised at the sight of my uncle, for he was very handsome, very solemn and very elegant, the old rake.

“Sitting, almost lying, in a large armchair, his legs wrapped in blankets, his hands, his long, white hands, over the arms of the chair, he was waiting for death with the dignity of a patriarch.  His white beard fell on his chest, and his hair, which was also white, mingled with it on his cheeks.

“Standing behind his armchair, as if to defend him against me, were two young women, who looked at me with bold eyes.  In their petticoats and morning wrappers, with bare arms, with coal black hair twisted in a knot on the nape of their neck, with embroidered, Oriental slippers, which showed their ankles and silk stockings, they looked like the figures in some symbolical painting, by the side of the dying man.  Between the easy-chair and the bed, there was a table covered with a white cloth, on which two plates, two glasses, two forks and two knives, were waiting for the cheese omelette which had been ordered some time before of Melanie.

“My uncle said in a weak, almost breathless, but clear voice: 

“’Good-morning, my child; it is rather late in the day to come and see me; our acquaintanceship will not last long.’  I stammered out, ’It was not my fault, uncle:’  ‘No; I know that,’ he replied.  ’It is your father and mother’s fault more than yours.  How are they?’ ’Pretty well, thank you.  When they heard that you were ill, they sent me to ask after you.’  ‘Ah!  Why did they not come themselves?’