The son-in-law asked: 

“What am I goin’ to do?”

She did not know.  She answered: 

“It certainly is annoying!”

The guests who were expected could not be notified.  They decided to wait and explain the case to them.

Toward a quarter to seven the first ones arrived.  The women in black, their heads covered with large veils, looking very sad.  Then men, ill at ease in their homespun coats, were coming forward more slowly, in couples, talking business.

Maitre Chicot and his wife, bewildered, received them sorrowfully, and suddenly both of them together began to cry as they approached the first group.  They explained the matter, related their difficulty, offered chairs, bustled about, tried to make excuses, attempting to prove that everybody would have done as they did, talking continually and giving nobody a chance to answer.

They were going from one person to another: 

“I never would have thought it; it’s incredible how he can last this long!”

The guests, taken aback, a little disappointed, as though they had missed an expected entertainment, did not know what to do, some remaining seated others standing.  Several wished to leave.  Maitre Chicot held them back: 

“You must take something, anyhow!  We made some dumplings; might as well make use of ’em.”

The faces brightened at this idea.  The yard was filling little by little; the early arrivals were telling the news to those who had arrived later.  Everybody was whispering.  The idea of the dumplings seemed to cheer everyone up.

The women went in to take a look at the dying man.  They crossed themselves beside the bed, muttered a prayer and went out again.  The men, less anxious for this spectacle, cast a look through the window, which had been opened.

Madame Chicot explained her distress: 

“That’s how he’s been for two days, neither better nor worse.  Doesn’t he sound like a pump that has gone dry?”

When everybody had had a look at the dying man, they thought of the refreshments; but as there were too many people for the kitchen to hold, the table was moved out in front of the door.  The four dozen golden dumplings, tempting and appetizing, arranged in two big dishes, attracted the eyes of all.  Each one reached out to take his, fearing that there would not be enough.  But four remained over.

Maitre Chicot, his mouth full, said: 

“Father would feel sad if he were to see this.  He loved them so much when he was alive.”

A big, jovial peasant declared: 

“He won’t eat any more now.  Each one in his turn.”

This remark, instead of making the guests sad, seemed to cheer them up.  It was their turn now to eat dumplings.

Madame Chicot, distressed at the expense, kept running down to the cellar continually for cider.  The pitchers were emptied in quick succession.  The company was laughing and talking loud now.  They were beginning to shout as they do at feasts.