"Stop!" suddenly exclaimed Mme Gabin. "I promised his wife to put a
pillow under his head."
The men, who were in a hurry, stuffed in the pillow roughly. One of
them, who had mislaid his hammer, began to swear. He had left the tool
below and went to fetch it, dropping the lid, and when two sharp blows
of the hammer drove in the first nail, a shock ran through my being--I
had ceased to live. The nails then entered in rapid succession with a
rhythmical cadence. It was as if some packers had been closing a case
of dried fruit with easy dexterity. After that such sounds as reached
me were deadened and strangely prolonged, as if the deal coffin had been
changed into a huge musical box. The last words spoken in the room of
the Rue Dauphine--at least the last ones that I heard distinctly--were
uttered by Mme Gabin.
"Mind the staircase," she said; "the banister of the second flight isn't
safe, so be careful."
While I was being carried down I experienced a sensation similar to that
of pitching as when one is on board a ship in a rough sea. However, from
that moment my impressions became more and more vague. I remember that
the only distinct thought that still possessed me was an imbecile,
impulsive curiosity as to the road by which I should be taken to the
cemetery.
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