He told her the story blunderingly enough, but it had its effect.
'Mon Dieu!' said Saintou, but he said it in a tone that made his sister, who was listening to every word through the door, leave that occupation and dart in to his assistance.
'Qu'elle est morte,' was her brief stern comment.

And so it was.

The baker's daughter had felt, and she had died.
'This is not wholly unexpected,' said the baker sadly, when he came to carry away the corpse of his daughter.

'We all expected it,' said the neighbours; 'she had heart disease.' And they talked their fill, and never discovered the truth it would have pleased them best to talk about.
The short hair curled softly about the face of the dead girl as she lay in her coffin, and Saintou paid heavily for masses for her sweet soul.
When they had laid her in the churchyard he came home, and took the key, and went into the little parlour all alone.

She had never seen it.