The faces brightened at this idea. The yard was filling little by little; the early arrivals were telling the news to those who had arrived later. Everybody was whispering. The idea of the dumplings seemed to cheer everyone up.
The women went in to take a look at the dying man. They crossed themselves beside the bed, muttered a prayer and went out again. The men, less anxious for this spectacle, cast a look through the window, which had been opened.
Madame Chicot explained her distress:
“That's how he's been for two days, neither better nor worse. Doesn't he sound like a pump that has gone dry?”
When everybody had had a look at the dying man, they thought of the refreshments; but as there were too many people for the kitchen to hold, the table was moved out in front of the door. The four dozen golden dumplings, tempting and appetizing, arranged in two big dishes, attracted the eyes of all. Each one reached out to take his, fearing that there would not be enough. But four remained over.
Maitre Chicot, his mouth full, said:
“Father would feel sad if he were to see this. He loved them so much when he was alive.”
A big, jovial peasant declared:
“He won't eat any more now. Each one in his turn.”
This remark, instead of making the guests sad, seemed to cheer them up. It was their turn now to eat dumplings.