At six o'clock, when the work was over, the father was still breathing. At last his son-in-law was frightened. “What would you do now, Phemie?” She no longer knew how to solve the problem. They went to the mayor. He promised that he would close his eyes and authorize the funeral for the following day. They also went to the health officer, who likewise promised, in order to oblige Maitre Chicot, to antedate the death certificate. The man and the woman returned, feeling more at ease. They went to bed and to sleep, just as they did the preceding day, their sonorous breathing blending with the feeble breathing of the old man. When they awoke, he was not yet dead. Then they began to be frightened. They stood by their father, watching him with distrust, as though he had wished to play them a mean trick, to deceive them, to annoy them on purpose, and they were vexed at him for the time which he was making them lose. The son-in-law asked: “What am I goin' to do?” She did not know. She answered: “It certainly is annoying!” The guests who were expected could not be notified. They decided to wait and explain the case to them. Toward a quarter to seven the first ones arrived. The women in black, their heads covered with large veils, looking very sad. Then men, ill at ease in their homespun coats, were coming forward more slowly, in couples, talking business. Maitre Chicot and his wife, bewildered, received them sorrowfully, and suddenly both of them together began to cry as they approached the first group. They explained the matter, related their difficulty, offered chairs, bustled about, tried to make excuses, attempting to prove that everybody would have done as they did, talking continually and giving nobody a chance to answer. They were going from one person to another: “I never would have thought it; it's incredible how he can last this long!” The guests, taken aback, a little disappointed, as though they had missed an expected entertainment, did not know what to do, some remaining seated others standing. Several wished to leave. Maitre Chicot held them back: “You must take something, anyhow! We made some dumplings; might as well make use of 'em.” The faces brightened at this idea. The yard was filling little by little; the early arrivals were telling the news to those who had arrived later. Everybody was whispering. The idea of the dumplings seemed to cheer everyone up. The women went in to take a look at the dying man. They crossed themselves beside the bed, muttered a prayer and went out again. The men, less anxious for this spectacle, cast a look through the window, which had been opened. Madame Chicot explained her distress: “That's how he's been for two days, neither better nor worse. Doesn't he sound like a pump that has gone dry?”