‘But look at the hand: I never make a mistake, you can depend upon it!’

Caravan fell back sprawling on the bed, almost bellowing; while his wife, still sniffing, did the necessary things, She brought up a night table, on which she spread a napkin, put on it four candles which she lit, took a branch of box-wood hung up behind the mirror on the mantelpiece, and put it between the candles in a plate which she filled with ordinary water, not having any holy water. But, after a quick reflection, she threw into the water a pinch of salt, imagining doubtless that she was making a sort of consecration in it.

When she had finished the ceremonies which should accompany death, she stood up, motionless. Then the doctor, who had helped her to arrange these objects, said to her in a low voice:

‘You must get Caravan away!’

She made a sign of assent, and going up to her husband who was sobbing, still on his knees, she raised him by one arm, while Monsieur Chenet took him by the other.

They set him on a chair, and his wife, kissing his brow, lectured him. The practitioner approved of her arguments, counselling resolution, courage, resignation, all the virtues that we cannot display in devastating misfortune like this. Then both of them took him again by the arms and took him away.

He was crying like a big baby, with convulsive sobs, limp, his arms swinging, his legs soft; and he went down the stair without knowing what he was doing, moving his feet mechanically.

They put him down in the arm-chair he always occupied at table, before his almost empty plate where the spoon was still lying wet in the remains of his soup. And he stayed there without a movement, his eyes fixed on his glass, so stupefied that he sat there even without thinking.

Madame Caravan, in a corner, was talking with the doctor, getting advice about the formalities, asking for all practical information. Finally, Monsieur Chenet, who seemed to be waiting for something, took his hat, and declaring that he hadn’t had his dinner yet, made his bow before going out. She cried:

‘What, you haven’t had dinner? But, stay, doctor, stay with us! What we have is going to be brought in: for you understand that people like us don’t have a big meal.’

He refused, excusing himself. She insisted.

‘Come now, stay. In such moments one is glad to have friends near one: and then, perhaps, you will persuade my husband to cheer up a little: he has so much need to take courage.’

The doctor bowed, and, putting his hat on a table:

‘In that case, I accept, madame.’

She gave orders to a bewildered Rosalie, then she herself sat down to the table, ‘to make a pretence at eating’, she said, and to keep the doctor company.

The cold soup was brought in again. Monsieur Chenet asked for a second helping. Then appeared a dish of tripe à la Lyonnaise, which shed a perfume of onions, and which Madame Caravan decided to taste. ‘It is excellent,’ said the doctor. She smiled: ‘Isn’t it?’ Then turning to her husband: ‘Take a little of it, then, my poor Alfred, only to put something in your stomach; remember that you’ve got to get through the night.’

He handed up his plate obediently, just as he would have gone to bed if they had told him to, obeying everybody without resistance and without reflection.