"Ah, yes," she said, lowering her voice, "it's all over, and I haven't long to live now. Oh, I wish I could die to-morrow. I can't go on, you know, doing as I am doing. I can't go on any longer cheering them all up. I have no strength left. I've come to the end of it, and I want to finish now. He doesn't see me as I am, does he? I can't kill him beforehand, you know. When he sees me laugh, why it doesn't matter about the doctors having given me up--he forgets that--he doesn't see anything, and he doesn't remember anything--so, you see, I am obliged to go on laughing. Ah, for people who can just pass away as they would like to--finish peacefully, die calmly, in a quiet place, with their face to the wall--why, that must be so easy. It's nothing to pass away like that. Well, anyhow, the worst part is over. And now you are here; and you'll help me to be brave. If I were to give way, you would be there to second me. And when--when I go, I count on you--you'll stay with him the first few months. Ah, don't cry," she said; "you'll make me cry, too." There was a moment's silence. "Six months already since Henri's funeral," she began again. "We've only seen each other once since that day. What a fearful turn I had, do you remember?" "Yes, indeed I do remember," said Denoisel. "I've gone through it all again, often enough. I can see you now, my poor child, enduring the most horrible suffering, and your lips moving as though you wanted to cry out, to say something, and you could not utter a single word." "I could not utter a single word," said Renee, repeating Denoisel's last words. She closed her eyes, and her lips moved for a second as though they were murmuring a prayer. Then, with such an expression of happiness that Denoisel was surprised, she said: "Ah, I am so glad to see you! Both of us together--you'll see how brave we shall be. And we'll take them all in finely--poor things!" LXIII It was stiflingly hot. Renee's windows were left open all the evening, and the lamp was not lighted, for fear of attracting the moths, which made her so nervous. They were talking, until as the daylight gradually faded, their words and thoughts were influenced by the solemnity of the long hours of dreamy reverie, without light. They all three soon ceased speaking at all, and remained there mute, breathing in the air and giving themselves up to the evening calm. M. Mauperin was holding Renee's hand in his, and every now and then he pressed it fondly. The gloom was gathering fast, and gradually the whole room grew quite dark. Lying full length on the sofa, Renee herself disappeared in the indistinct whiteness of her dressing-gown. Presently nothing at all could be seen, and the room itself seemed all one with the sky.