He stood some time in silence by the bed; and as he looked our hearts froze.

He said it would be over to-night, and put the phial in his hand back in his pocket.

Then, regretting that he could not stay, he disappeared.
And we stayed on beside the dying woman--so fragile that we dare not touch her, nor even try to speak to her.
Madame Piot settles down in a chair; she crosses her arms, lowers her head, and the time goes by.
At long intervals people take shape in the darkness by the door; people who come in on tiptoe whisper to us and go away.
The moribund moves her hands and feet and contorts her face.

A gurgling comes from her throat, which we can hardly see in the cavity that is like a nest of shadow under her chin.

She has blenched, and the skin that is drawn over the bones of her face like a shroud grows whiter every moment.
Intent upon her breathing, we throng about her.