Fancy her speaking to me like that! My heart sank, and I said to myself that there was no chance for her as I sat down by the bedside and took her hand in mine. Her eyes rested on me with affection, but she was too weak to talk, so I tried to cheer her up by telling all about my illness, and how I had got out of the clutches of the plague after all; but as it was the first she had heard of it the news proved almost too much for her, and she turned so faint that I was ready to beat myself on the head for my stupidity. However, she came to in a little while, and to my great relief began to scold me in her trembling voice; she was so weak that she could not get the words out fast enough, and it really did me good, and seemed like old times to be told that I ought to be ashamed of myself, that a man of any decency would have let his wife know when he caught the plague, and that I deserved to die of it all alone on my dunghill. The others were frightened at her violence, and wanted to send me out of the room, but I laughed and said that it would do her good to lose her temper, she was used to it; then I took her face in my two hands and kissed her on both cheeks, and will you believe it? the poor old thing began to cry. For a long time after that I sat with her alone in silence, listening to the tick-tack of the death-watch in the wainscot; at last she tried to speak, but could only make a feeble murmur. “Don’t try to talk, old girl,” said I. “I understand; we have not lived together thirty years for nothing.” “I have something I must say to you, Colas, or I should not rest easy in Paradise,--I have been very hard to you, my husband.” “No, no,” said I, “only a bit sharp, and that was good for me.” “Yes, I was hard, jealous, quarrelsome; I know I often made the house too hot for you, but,--Colas, it was because I loved you!” “You don’t say so!” said I, patting her hand. “Well, there are all sorts of ways of loving, but yours was rather a queer one.” “I did love you,” she went on, “and you never returned it, that was why I was cross, and you were always good-natured. Oh! that laugh of yours, Colas! You don’t know how it made me suffer, till sometimes I really thought it would kill me. You covered yourself with it like a hood, and storm as I might, I could never get at you.” “My poor old dear!” said I; “that was because I do not like water!” “There you go again laughing! But I don’t mind it now that the chill of the grave is upon me; your laughter seems something warm and comforting, it does not anger me now,--and, Colas, say that you forgive me.”