“Well, Celeste, aren’t things going well?”

The little servant moaned through her tears: 

“She doesn’t even recognize me any more.  The doctor says it’s the end.”

Everybody looked around.

Mme. Cimme and Mme. Colombel immediately embraced each other, without saying a word.  They locked very much alike, having always worn their hair in Madonna bands, and loud red French cashmere shawls.

Cimme turned to his brother-in-law, a pale, sal, low-complexioned, thin man, wasted by stomach complaints, who limped badly, and said in a serious tone of voice: 

“Gad!  It was high time.”

But no one dared to enter the dying woman’s room on the ground floor.  Even Cimme made way for the others.  Colombel was the first to make up his mind, and, swaying from side to side like the mast of a ship, the iron ferule of his cane clattering on the paved hall, he entered.

The two women were the next to venture, and M. Cimmes closed the procession.

Little Joseph had remained outside, pleased at the sight of the dog.

A ray of sunlight seemed to cut the bed in two, shining just on the hands, which were moving nervously, continually opening and closing.  The fingers were twitching as though moved by some thought, as though trying to point out a meaning or idea, as though obeying the dictates of a will.  The rest of the body lay motionless under the sheets.  The angular frame showed not a single movement.  The eyes remained closed.

The family spread out in a semi-circle and, without a word, they began to watch the contracted chest and the short, gasping breathing.  The little servant had followed them and was still crying.

At last Cimme asked: 

“Exactly what did the doctor say?”

The girl stammered: 

“He said to leave her alone, that nothing more could be done for her.”

But suddenly the old woman’s lips began to move.  She seemed to be uttering silent words, words hidden in the brain of this dying being, and her hands quickened their peculiar movements.

Then she began to speak in a thin, high voice, which no one had ever heard, a voice which seemed to come from the distance, perhaps from the depths of this heart which had always been closed.

Cimme, finding this scene painful, walked away on tiptoe.  Colombel, whose crippled leg was growing tired, sat down.

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: