One warm afternoon, between three and four o'clock, at the end of October, one of those radiant days when the unveiled light seems as naked as the stripped trees, the windows were open to let in the rays of an autumn sun as mild and golden as honey. It was the day after Odette's eighth birthday. Annette was at Sylvie's. In the room over the court, they were looking out together and examining materials, gossiping and gravely occupied with their investigation. Odette was on the other side of the passage, in the room at the end that overlooked the street. Just a few minutes before, the inquisitive child had peeped through the half-open door to see what they were doing. They had pretended to scold her and had sent her back again to finish a little piece of work before they all had tea together. Marc was at school; they were expecting him home again in half an hour. The moments were flowing along smoothly, without a ripple, without a wave, unhastingly, as if they were to flow this way for the rest of their lives. They felt so calm that they did not even think of enjoying it. It was natural! In the ivy on the wall of the court the happy sparrows were chirping. The last flies of autumn were humming their content, warming their torpid wings in the lingering rays of sunlight. . . . They heard nothing, nothing. Yet they both became silent at the same moment, as if the fragile thread on which their happiness was suspended had broken. There was a ring at the door. "Marc, so soon? No, it's too soon." A ring. Someone was knocking again. What a hurry some people are in! We're coming! Sylvie went and opened the door, and Annette followed her a few steps behind. At the door the concierge, out of breath, was shouting and waving her arms. At first they did not understand. "Madame doesn't know . . . the terrible thing that's happened. The little girl . . ." "Who?" "Mademoiselle Odette. . . . That poor little darling." "What? What?" "She's fallen." "Fallen!" "She's down below." Sylvie screamed. She pushed the concierge aside and dashed downstairs. Annette would have followed her, but her legs failed her; she had to wait till her heart would allow her to walk. She was still upstairs, leaning over the baluster, when from the street the wild cries of Sylvie came to her. What had happened? Probably Odette, who did not like to work and was dawdling and rummaging about, had leaned out of the window to see if Marc was coming and had fallen. The poor little thing had not even had the time to understand. . . . When Annette, tottering, at last reached the street, she saw a great crowd gathered. Sylvie, like a madwoman, was holding in her arms the little broken body, with its legs and head hanging like a slaughtered lamb. The brown hair veiled the fractured skull; nothing was to be seen but a little blood at the nose. The eyes were still open and seemed to be asking. Death had replied.