Forestier raised his head and said to his wife: "Give me more air."
She replied: "You must be careful; it is late, the sun is setting; you will catch more cold and that would be a serious thing in your condition."
He made a feeble gesture of anger with his right hand, and said: "I tell you I am suffocating! What difference does it make if I die a day sooner or later, since I must die?"
She opened the window wide. The air was soft and balmy. Forestier inhaled it in feverish gasps. He grasped the arms of his chair and said in a low voice: "Shut the window. I would rather die in a cellar."
His wife slowly closed the window, then leaned her brow against the pane and looked out. Duroy, ill at ease, wished to converse with the invalid to reassure him, but he could think of no words of comfort. He stammered: "Have you not been better since you are here?"
His friend shrugged his shoulders impatiently: "You will see very soon." And he bowed his head again.
Duroy continued: "At home it is still wintry. It snows, hails, rains, and is so dark that they have to light the lamps at three o'clock in the afternoon."
Forestier asked: "Is there anything new at the office?"
"Nothing. They have taken little Lacrin of the 'Voltaire' to fill your place, but he is incapable. It is time you came back."
The invalid muttered: "I? I will soon be writing under six feet of sod." A long silence ensued.