However, I did not feel
impatient; the commotion had been too strong. It was wrong of Marguerite
to give way like that when I had not even the strength to turn my head
on the pillow and smile at her. The next time that she moaned out,
"He is dead! Dead!" I would embrace her and murmur softly so as not to
startle her: "No, my darling, I was only asleep. You see, I am alive,
and I love you."
CHAPTER II
FUNERAL PREPARATIONS
Marguerite's cries had attracted attention, for all at once the door
was opened and a voice exclaimed: "What is the matter, neighbor? Is he
worse?"
I recognized the voice; it was that of an elderly woman, Mme Gabin, who
occupied a room on the same floor. She had been most obliging since our
arrival and had evidently become interested in our concerns. On her own
side she had lost no time in telling us her history. A stern landlord
had sold her furniture during the previous winter to pay himself his
rent, and since then she had resided at the lodginghouse in the Rue
Dauphine with her daughter Dede, a child of ten. They both cut and
pinked lamp shades, and between them they earned at the utmost only two
francs a day.
"Heavens! Is it all over?" cried Mme Gabin, looking at me.
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