"You my only one, my all," she whispered, folding her hands under her chin and staring at him.
His chest seemed quieter. He lay there in peace.
Weeping with happiness, she threw herself down beside him and kissed his hands. And then, as he took no notice of all that, a slow astonishment came over her. Also, she had an insecure feeling that his hand was not as usual.
Powerless to cry out, almost to breathe, she looked upon him. She felt his forehead; she groped for his heart. All was still and cold. Then she knew.
The bell—the waiters—the physician—to what purpose? There was no need of help here. She knelt down and wanted to pray, and make up for her neglect.
A vision arose before her: the widow's house at home; her mother; the tile oven; her old maidenish sisters rattling their wooden crocheting hooks—and she herself beside them, her blonde hair smoothed with water, a little riband at her breast, gazing out upon the frozen fields, and throttling, throttling with love. For he whom fate had given her could use her love no longer.
From the next room sounded the whispering, monotonous, broken, assailing her ears in glowing waves:
"J'en mourrai—je t'adore—mon amour."
That was his song of death. She felt that it was her own, too.