“Tall, tall candles,” continued the woman. “They burn brightly; and she is not alone. To-day I have seen her three times. There were only two wreaths this morning, but there must be more than twenty now. To-morrow the concierge will do nothing but take up wreaths.” And the woman coughed, the other women murmured; then the husky voice was heard again:— “They have telegraphed for her brother; her parents are dead. He is a peasant. He has never been to Paris. He is twenty-three. He adored her. I have seen letters of his which called her ‘ma petite sœur bien aimée.’ He would have cut himself into pieces for Marcelle.” A husky, husky voice. Gestures accompanying each word, and now and again the short, sharp cough. As the hour advanced, Madame Bertrand’s stout, bearded manager (installed behind the counter) began to doze. The servant who distributed the cups of milk and coffee settled herself on a stool in the background and closed her eyes. From the coffee urns, the urns of milk, arose fumes; the urns of boiling water hissed. Past the shop, crawled a market-cart, packed thick and high with vegetables, and, on the top of the vegetables, sat a sturdy peasant woman, her head enveloped in a handkerchief. Through the windows one might see two policemen gossiping over the way; a vagrant limping by; the eternal _chiffonnier_, stooping over the gutter in quest of stumps of cigars and cigarettes. Only in the milk-shop was there light, a pale, unbecoming light from the lamp overhead. Only here was there colour, the colours of the shabby women’s dresses: faded blue, dingy yellow, red. Only _chez_ Madame Bertrand was there a group—a group of frightened, haunted women, fifteen or so. No woman went her way. None felt strong, secure enough to endure the solitude of her dim _chambre meublée_. Perhaps they remained there until dawn. Perhaps they were still there, when the first workman passed. And no doubt he, after glancing through the windows, shrugged his shoulders and soliloquised: “There they are, the abandoned ones, making another merry night of it.” Gloom, next day. Gloom, on the day after. And greater gloom on the gloomiest day of all—the day of the funeral. A sombre day: clouds hanging close over the Latin Quarter. A damp day; in the air, mist. A day when the householders of a certain narrow street came to their doors; when other residents appeared at their windows; when spectators assembled on the kerbstone; when a group of shabby, forlorn women stood silently beside a hearse—the shabbiest, the most wasted, a woman in red. She had no other dress. Those in faded blue and dingy yellow, had no other dresses. In Paris, black failing... “one does one’s best.”