The chamber was dark and cold. It resembles mine, but is better furnished, less dirty. A large window opens upon the high wall, which looms up gloomily a few mètres from the front of the house. Marie was alone, motionless, her eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling with that pensive and heart-rending air of invalids who already see beyond life. Pâquerette had just gone down-stairs to get her breakfast. On a small table, placed near an arm-chair, were an army of bottles, a single glass and the remains of food. The thought came to me that Pâquerette took more care of herself than of the dying girl. I kissed Marie's forehead; I seated myself upon the edge of the bed, taking and holding one of her hands. She turned her head slowly and smiled upon me, telling me that she was not in pain, that she was resting herself. Her voice, a trifle hoarse, was reduced to a feeble and caressing murmur. Her forehead inclined, she looked at me with her feverish and enlarged eyes; astonishment and tenderness were mingled in her full glances. My heart was wrung with pity at the sight of this poor creature. I felt that I was on the point of bursting into tears. Pâquerette returned, loaded with new bottles and fresh food. She opened the window, complaining of the bad air; she established herself comfortably in the arm-chair, before the table; then, she began to eat noisily, talking as she chewed, questioning Marie about her adorers, about her past life. She seemed to ignore that the poor girl was sick; she treated her like a lazy creature who loves to lie in bed and be pitied. I looked with disgust at this woman, wrapped up in herself, licking her greasy fingers, chuckling, bantering the dying girl with her mouth full, and casting at me sullen and cynical glances, those desperate glances which certain old women yet have in their reddened eyes. Pâquerette, ceasing to eat, partially turned her arm-chair; then, crossing her hands upon her skirts, she looked at us, at Marie and myself, first at one and afterwards at the other, laughing a wicked laugh. "Ah! my dear," said she to the sick girl, pointing at me her bony finger, "isn't he a handsome young fellow! His heart is widowed and has need of new love affairs!" Marie smiled sadly, closing her eyes, withdrawing her hand which mine had kept. "You are deceived," I answered Pâquerette, after a moment's silence; "my heart is not widowed. I love Laurence." Marie lifted her eyelids, and restored to me her fingers, which I found more agitated, hotter, than before. "Laurence! Laurence!" sneered the old woman; "she is making a fool of you! You are like all the rest of the men. They love those who betray and abandon them. Look for another sweetheart, my poor Monsieur, look for another sweetheart!" I did not hear distinctly, according ordinarily no attention whatever to the chatter of this old woman. And yet, though I know not why, I felt a vague uneasiness. An unknown warmth filled my being with a painful quiver.