Madame Cimme and Madame Columbel embraced each other instantly, not saying a word.
They resembled each other much, always wearing braids of hair and shawls of red cashmere, as bright as hot coals.
Cimme turned toward his brother-in-law, a pale man, yellow and thin, tormented by indigestion, who limped badly, and said to him in a serious tone:
"Gad! It was time!"
But no one dared to go into the room of the dying woman situated on the ground floor. Cimme himself stopped at that step. Columbel was the first to decide upon it; he entered, balancing himself like the mast of a ship, making a noise on the floor with the iron of his cane.
The two women ventured to follow, and M. Cimme brought up the line.
Little Joseph remained outside, playing with the dog.
A ray of sunlight fell on the bed, lighting up the hands which moved nervously, opening and shutting without ceasing. The fingers moved as if a thought animated them, as if they would signify something, indicate some idea, obey some intelligence. The rest of the body remained motionless under the covers. The angular figure gave no start. The eyes remained closed.
The relatives arranged themselves in a semicircle and, without saying a word, regarded the heaving breast and the short breathing. The little maid had followed them, still shedding tears.
Finally, Cimme asked: "What was it the doctor said?"