Automatically she thought of Carl.
“Last night, after you and Mrs. Daquin left, Carl came by the house and I called him in,” she told Jean. “He was very unhappy—I never saw him so downcast. We talked awhile—then—then—oh, Jean, he told me he loved me—and it made me mighty happy—”
“Carl’s a good boy, Mimi. A little too flighty—a little weak, too, I’m afraid—but he’ll come around all right, I think. They don’t understand him and they’re always rubbing his fur the wrong way but—Carl’s got the right stuff in him.”
Jean lapsed again into one of his retrospective moods. His eyes slowly closed and soon he fell asleep. Mimi kissed him gently, lowered the shade to keep the light from the street lamp from disturbing him, and stole softly from the room. …
XI
At midnight Dr. Adams made his last call for the day.
“He’s resting easily now and I think he’ll sleep through the night. Call me if you need me. And you’d better get a little sleep yourself or I’ll have two patients,” he advised Mimi as he left.
His words brought realization to Mimi that she was tired. She sent Mrs. Daquin to bed, telling her she would lock up the house and see that everything was attended to. She then tiptoed into Jean’s room and found him breathing gently, his face, with a smile upon it, turned towards the door.
When he called at seven the next morning Dr. Adams said that Jean had been dead about three hours. Mimi found on his face the same smile that had been there when she had seen him last. Mrs. Daquin came into the room weeping but for Mimi there were no tears. Death had come too suddenly upon her, its swift snatching away of her Jean had rendered her incapable of thought, of every emotion. She knelt by the bed, her head resting beside Jean’s, stunned, inarticulate. Dr. Adams tried to pull her away, telling her it would be better for her if she did not stay too long there.
“No, Doctor, I’m happier here. I’ve just a few more hours with Jean now. Leave me here alone, won’t you?”
He led the weeping Mrs. Daquin from the room and Mimi was alone with Jean. Jean dead? She couldn’t believe it was true. She touched his hand, stiffened, cold. It terrified her. How many times she might have held it, warm, pulsating, responsive.
No—she had been too busy with her own petty affairs, her own insignificant worries, to think of him—longing for his quiet old home, unhappy in an environment and among people he did not understand and whose ways were not his. She had known in an indefinite sort of way that Jean was not happy, that he and Mary grew farther and farther apart each year, each month, each day. A spasm of remorse swept through Mimi—remorse that held her in an icy, terrifying grip—when she realized now how she might have been of comfort, of consolation, to Jean, and instead had chased merrily after her own whims and fancies, giving little thought to him. She knew now that these later years must have been terribly lonely ones for him. She felt she would cheerfully have given ten years of her life to have him back for one year, for one month, even for one day. Then she would show him the quality of her love for him. Holy Mother, why did one see these things only when it was too late?
She was glad they had had their talk yesterday afternoon. It had been like old times, she and Jean had been so happy together. Even in his own illness his thoughts had been of her—he had wanted to live not for his own sake but only for hers. “You’ll come through all right,” he had said. She wondered if she would. Without Jean’s physical presence she speculated what her relations with Mrs. Daquin would be. In his quiet way Jean had had a very real control over his wife. Mimi sensed now as she had never done before that despite his gentleness, which sometimes seemed to be almost weakness, his apparent softness had had great strength behind it—strength enough to hold in check Mrs. Daquin’s aggressiveness and domineering attitude. Jean had not spoken sharply often but when he had his wife listened and obeyed. He had never had to speak twice.
Why don’t I cry, she wondered, like all women do and most men when death comes? She was conscious of a slight feeling of guilt because of her dry eyes. She wondered if she was showing proper respect. She looked at Jean’s peaceful face. Her own face was set in hard, tight lines, her teeth were clamped until the muscles of her jaws ached, but no tears came. Jean dead? No—no—no—it couldn’t be true. …
They found her there, dry-eyed, when the undertaker came to prepare Jean for burial. She was calm until the dingy wicker basket, sagging with the weight of its load, was being carried through the door. She was thinking of that day Jean had referred to yesterday—that day in the St. Louis cemetery when the funeral procession passed near them. Jean had said he felt just as though his own body were in the casket. She knew now what he had meant—her own body was there in that straw container.
“Be careful!” she cried as one of the men let the basket strike against the door. A sharp physical pain shot through her body, followed by nausea as the men righted the slipping basket. Then all went dark for her. Without a sound she sank to the floor, unconscious. …
When she awoke she was in bed. Hilda sat near and smiled at her when she opened her eyes.
“Papa says you must keep quiet, absolutely. Mama is seeing after things and Mr. Hunter is taking care of all the
