As Mme. Colombel was fumbling in her pocket for her purse, Cimme stopped her, and, turning to the maid: “Have you got any money?” She answered: “Yes, monsieur.” “How much?” “Fifteen francs.” “That's enough. Hustle, my girl, because I am beginning to get very hungry:” Mme. Cimme, looking out over the climbing vines bathed in sunlight, and at the two turtle-doves on the roof opposite, said in an annoyed tone of voice: “What a pity to have had to come for such a sad occasion. It is so nice in the country to-day.” Her sister sighed without answering, and Colombel mumbled, thinking perhaps of the walk ahead of him: “My leg certainly is bothering me to-day:” Little Joseph and the dog were making a terrible noise; one was shrieking with pleasure, the other was barking wildly. They were playing hide-and-seek around the three flower beds, running after each other like mad. The dying woman continued to call her children, talking with each one, imagining that she was dressing them, fondling them, teaching them how to read: “Come on! Simon repeat: A, B, C, D. You are not paying attention, listen--D, D, D; do you hear me? Now repeat--” Cimme exclaimed: “Funny what people say when in that condition.” Mme. Colombel then asked: “Wouldn't it be better if we were to return to her?” But Cimme dissuaded her from the idea: “What's the use? You can't change anything. We are just as comfortable here.” Nobody insisted. Mme. Cimme observed the two green birds called love-birds. In a few words she praised this singular faithfulness and blamed the men for not imitating these animals. Cimme began to laugh, looked at his wife and hummed in a teasing way: “Tra-la-la, tra-la-la” as though to cast a good deal of doubt on his own, Cimme's, faithfulness: Colombel was suffering from cramps and was rapping the floor with his cane. The other cat, its tail pointing upright to the sky, now came in. They sat down to luncheon at one o'clock. As soon as he had tasted the wine, Colombel, for whom only the best of Bordeaux had been prescribed, called the servant back: “I say, my girl, is this the best stuff that you have in the cellar?” “No, monsieur; there is some better wine, which was only brought out when you came.” “Well, bring us three bottles of it.” They tasted the wine and found it excellent, not because it was of a remarkable vintage, but because it had been in the cellar fifteen years. Cimme declared: “That is regular invalid's wine.” Colombel, filled with an ardent desire to gain possession of this Bordeaux, once more questioned the girl: “How much of it is left?” “Oh! Almost all, monsieur; mamz'elle never touched it. It's in the bottom stack.” Then he turned to his brother-in-law: “If you wish, Cimme, I would be willing to exchange something else for this wine; it suits my stomach marvellously.” The chicken had now appeared with its regiment of young ones. The two women were enjoying themselves throwing crumbs to them.