She had in the town a few acquaintances, the families of clerks, whose men travelled to Paris every day. From time to time, they would invite her to spend the evening and drink a cup of tea with them. She inevitably fell asleep on these occasions, and they were obliged to wake her up so that she could go home. She never allowed anyone to accompany her, having no fear by night or day. She seemed to have no love for children.
She occupied her time with a thousand masculine cares, carpentry, gardening, cutting or sawing wood, repairing her old house, even doing mason’s work when it was necessary.
She had some relatives who came to see her twice a year. Her two sisters, Madame Cimme and Madame Columbel, were married, one to an herbalist, the other to a man with small private means. Madame Cimme had no children; Madame Columbel had three: Henri, Pauline, and Joseph. Henri was twenty-one, Pauline, seventeen, and Joseph only three, having come when one would have thought the mother past the age. No tenderness united this old maid to her kinsfolk.
In the spring of 1882, Queen Hortense became suddenly ill. The neighbours went for a doctor, whom she drove away. When the priest presented himself she got out of bed, half naked, and put him out. The little maid, weeping, made herb tea for her.
After three days in bed, the situation became so grave that the carpenter living next door, on the advice of the doctor, who had returned to the house on his own authority, took it upon himself to summon the two families.
They arrived by the same train, about ten o’clock in the morning; the Columbels having brought their little Joseph.
When they arrived at the garden gate, they saw the maid seated on a chair against the wall, weeping. The dog lay asleep on the mat before the front door, under a broiling sun; two cats, that looked dead, lay stretched out on the windowsills, with eyes closed and paws and tails extended at full length. A great clucking hen was promenading before the door, at the head of a flock of chicks covered with yellow down, and in a large cage hung against the wall, covered with chickweed, were several birds, singing themselves hoarse in the light of this hot spring morning.
Two others, inseparable, in a little cage in the form of a cottage, remained quiet, side by side on their perch.
M. Cimme, a large, wheezy personage, who always entered a room first, pushing aside men and women when it was necessary, remarked to the maid: “Well, Céleste! Is it so bad as that?”
The little maid sobbed through her tears:
“She doesn’t know me any more. The doctor says it is the end.”
They all looked at one another.
Madame Cimme and Madame Columbel embraced each other instantly, without saying a word.
They resembled each other very much, always wearing their hair parted in the middle, and shawls of red cashmere, as bright as hot coals.
Cimme turned toward his brother-in-law, a pale man, yellow and thin, tormented by indigestion, who limped badly, and said to him in a serious tone:
“Gad! It was time!”
But no one dared to go into the room of the dying woman, situated on the ground floor. Cimme himself let the others go before him. Columbel was the first to make up his mind; he entered, balancing himself like the mast of a ship, making a noise on the floor with the ferrule of his walking-stick.
The two women ventured to follow, and M. Cimme brought up the line.
Little Joseph remained outside, drawn by the sight of the dog.
A ray of sunlight fell on the bed, just lighting up the hands which moved nervously, opening and shutting without ceasing. The fingers moved as if a thought animated them, as if they would signify something, indicate some idea, obey some intelligence. The rest of the body remained motionless under the sheet. The angular figure gave no start. The eyes remained closed.
The relatives arranged themselves in a semicircle and, without saying a word, watched the heaving breast and the short breathing. The little maid had followed them, still shedding tears.
Finally, Cimme asked: “What did the doctor say exactly?”
The servant stammered: “He said we must leave her alone, that nothing more could be done.”
Suddenly the lips of the old maid began to move. She seemed to pronounce some silent words, concealed in her dying brain, and her hands quickened their singular movement.
Then she spoke in a little, thin voice, quite unlike her own, a voice that seemed to come from far off, perhaps from the bottom of that heart always closed.
Cimme walked upon tiptoe, finding this spectacle painful. Columbel, whose lame leg was growing tired, sat down.
The two women remained standing.
Queen Hortense muttered something quickly, which they were unable to understand. She pronounced some names, called tenderly some imaginary persons:
“Come here, my little Philippe, kiss your mother. You love mamma, don’t you, my child? You, Rose, you will watch your little sister while I am out. Above all, don’t leave her alone, do you hear? And I forbid you to touch matches.”
She was silent some seconds; then, in a loud tone, as if she was calling, she said: “Henriette!” She waited a little and continued: “Tell your father to come and speak to me before going to his office.” Then suddenly: “I am not very well today, dear; promise me you will not return late; you will tell your chief that I am ill. You know it is dangerous to leave the children alone when I am in bed. I am going to make you a dish of rice and sugar for dinner. The little ones like it so much. Claire will be so pleased!”
She began to laugh, a youthful and noisy laugh, as she had never laughed before. “Look at Jean,” she said, “how funny he looks. He has smeared himself with jam, the dirty little
