Cachelin, who was gazing at his sister, too, turned towards Lesable, and the two men looked at each other.
"Yes," replied the elder, wishing to force his face into an expression of sorrow, but the two understood one another at a glance, and without knowing why, instinctively, they shook hands, as though each would thank the other for a service rendered.
Then, without losing any time, they quickly occupied themselves with the offices required by the dead.
Lesable undertook to fetch the doctor, and to discharge as quickly as possible the most urgent errands.
He took his hat and ran down the staircase, in haste to be in the street, to be alone, to breathe, to think, to rejoice in solitude over his good fortune.
When he had attended to his errands, instead of returning he went across to the boulevard, possessed with a desire to see the crowds, to mingle in the movement of the happy life of the evening. He felt like crying out to the passers-by: "I have fifty thousand francs a year," and he walked along, his hands in his pockets, stopping before the show-windows, examining the rich stuffs, the jewels, the artistic furniture, with this joyous thought: "I can buy these for myself now."
Suddenly he stopped in front of a mourning store and the startling thought came into his mind: "What if she is not dead? What if they are mistaken?"
And he quickly turned homeward with this doubt troubling his mind.
On entering he demanded: "Has the doctor come?"
Cachelin replied: "Yes, he has confirmed the death, and is now writing the certificate."