But Marie Louise and Philip Augustus had gone out again to wander about the avenue. They were soon surrounded by their comrades, above all by little girls, more wide awake, scenting more quickly the mysteries of life. And they asked like grown-ups:

‘Your grandma is dead?’

‘Yes, yesterday evening.’

‘What’s a dead person?’

And Marie Louise explained, told about the candles, the boxwood, the face. Then a mighty curiosity was roused in all the children, and they too asked to go up to the dead woman’s room.

At once, Marie Louise organized a first expedition, five girls and two boys, the biggest, the boldest. She made them take off their shoes so as not to be found out: the troop sneaked through the house and climbed the stairs quickly like an army of mice.

Once in the room, the little girl, imitating her mother, took charge of the ceremonial. She solemnly directed her comrades, knelt, made the sign of the cross, moved her lips, rose up, sprinkled the bed, and while the children in a close packed mass came near, terrified, curious, and delighted, to look at the face and the hands, she began suddenly to pretend to be sobbing, hiding her eyes in her little handkerchief.

Then, consoled by the thought of those who were waiting at the door, she swept off at a run all her visitors in order to bring up another group, then a third, for all the urchins of the neighbourhood, down to the little ragged beggars, ran to this new pleasure: and each time she simply imitated her mother with an absolute perfection.

In the long run, she got tired. Another game drew the children to a distance: and the old grandmother remained alone, forgotten completely by everybody.

Shadows filled the room: the quivering flame of the candles made lights and shadows dance on her dry wrinkled face.

About eight o’clock Caravan came up, closed the window and renewed the candles. He came in now in a quiet fashion, already accustomed to consider the corpse as if it had been there for months. He even noticed that no decomposition had set in yet, and he remarked about it to his wife at the moment when she sat down to the table for dinner. She answered:

‘Oh, she’s made of wood. She would keep for a year.’

The soup was eaten without saying a word. The children, let loose all day, tired out with fatigue, were dozing on their chairs, and everybody remained silent.

Suddenly the light of the lamp went down.

Madame Caravan at once turned up the wick: but the apparatus gave out a hollow sound, a prolonged gurgling, and the light went out. They had forgotten to buy oil! To go to the grocer’s would delay dinner; they looked for candles, but there were no others than those lit in the room above on top of the night table.

Madame Caravan, prompt in her decisions, quickly sent Marie Louise to take two of them, and they waited for her in the darkness.

They heard the little girl’s steps distinctly as she climbed the stairs.