The two women remained standing.

Queen Hortense was now babbling away, and no one could understand a word.  She was pronouncing names, many names, tenderly calling imaginary people.

“Come here, Philippe, kiss your mother.  Tell me, child, do you love your mamma?  You, Rose, take care of your little sister while I am away.  And don’t leave her alone.  Don’t play with matches!”

She stopped for a while, then, in a louder voice, as though she were calling someone:  “Henriette!” then waited a moment and continued: 

“Tell your father that I wish to speak to him before he goes to business.”  And suddenly:  “I am not feeling very well to-day, darling; promise not to come home late.  Tell your employer that I am sick.  You know, it isn’t safe to leave the children alone when I am in bed.  For dinner I will fix you up a nice dish of rice.  The little ones like that very much.  Won’t Claire be happy?”

And she broke into a happy, joyous laugh, such as they had never heard:  “Look at Jean, how funny he looks!  He has smeared jam all over his face, the little pig!  Look, sweetheart, look; isn’t he funny?”

Colombel, who was continually lifting his tired leg from place to place, muttered: 

“She is dreaming that she has children and a husband; it is the beginning of the death agony.”

The two sisters had not yet moved, surprised, astounded.

The little maid exclaimed: 

“You must take off your shawls and your hits!  Would you like to go into the parlor?”

They went out without having said a word.  And Colombel followed them, limping, once more leaving the dying woman alone.

When they were relieved of their travelling garments, the women finally sat down.  Then one of the cats left its window, stretched, jumped into the room and on to Mme. Cimme’s knees.  She began to pet it.

In the next room could be heard the voice of the dying woman, living, in this last hour, the life for which she had doubtless hoped, living her dreams themselves just when all was over for her.

Cimme, in the garden, was playing with little Joseph and the dog, enjoying himself in the whole hearted manner of a countryman, having completely forgotten the dying woman.

But suddenly he entered the house and said to the girl: 

“I say, my girl, are we not going to have luncheon?  What do you ladies wish to eat?”

They finally agreed on an omelet, a piece of steak with new potatoes, cheese and coffee.

As Mme. Colombel was fumbling in her pocket for her purse, Cimme stopped her, and, turning to the maid:  “Have you got any money?”

She answered: 

“Yes, monsieur.”

“How much?”

“Fifteen francs.”

“That’s enough.  Hustle, my girl, because I am beginning to get very hungry:” 

Mme. Cimme, looking out over the climbing vines bathed in sunlight, and at the two turtle-doves on the roof opposite, said in an annoyed tone of voice: