“He died in the arms of a female relative.”
“Well, were you the relative?”
“Indeed! my fine fellow, be careful! Do you think I would be the female relative of a convict? Do you not know any of these names?” The postmaster felt guilty; he did know one of the names.
“They are common enough,” he replied. “The name of my aunt’s second husband was Durocher.”
“It will not do!” said the widow. “Somebody builds a house, no one knows who; people come and go, no one knows how; and you, a stupid postmaster, shut your eyes and help things along.”
Three days after this, Mademoiselle Viau came home. She was no longer the little one in gray; she was the little one in black. She came straight to Monsieur Cuerrier to get her cat. Then she went home. The widow watched her go in. “Now,” she said, “we will not see her come out again.”
Mademoiselle Viau refused to take any more work. She was sick, she said; she wanted to rest. She rested for two weeks, and Monsieur Cuerrier brought her food ready cooked. Then he stopped; she was better. One evening Madame Laroque peeped in at the side window. She saw the little milliner quite distinctly. She was on her knees, her face was hidden in her arms. The fire was very bright, and the lamp was lighted.
Two days after that the widow said to Cuerrier: “It is very strange there is no smoke. Has Mademoiselle Viau gone away?”
“Yes, she has gone.”
“Did you see her go?”