Madame Chicot, distressed at the expense, kept running down to the cellar continually for cider. The pitchers were emptied in quick succession. The company was laughing and talking loud now. They were beginning to shout as they do at feasts.
Suddenly an old peasant woman who had stayed beside the dying man, held there by a morbid fear of what would soon happen to herself, appeared at the window and cried in a shrill voice:
“He's dead! he's dead!”
Everybody was silent. The women arose quickly to go and see. He was indeed dead. The rattle had ceased. The men looked at each other, looking down, ill at ease. They hadn't finished eating the dumplings. Certainly the rascal had not chosen a propitious moment. The Chicots were no longer weeping. It was over; they were relieved.
They kept repeating:
“I knew it couldn't 'last. If he could only have done it last night, it would have saved us all this trouble.”
Well, anyhow, it was over. They would bury him on Monday, that was all, and they would eat some more dumplings for the occasion.
The guests went away, talking the matter over, pleased at having had the chance to see him and of getting something to eat.
And when the husband and wife were alone, face to face, she said, her face distorted with grief:
“We'll have to bake four dozen more dumplings! Why couldn't he have made up his mind last night?”