"Ah! dat is drue."
"Very well," said the Abbe, "I am thinking of sending your Mme. Cantinet, a good and honest creature—"
The practical details of the care of the dead bewildered Schmucke, till he was fain to die with his friend.
"He is a child," said the doctor, turning to the Abbe Duplanty.
"Ein child," Schmucke repeated mechanically.
"There, then," said the curate; "I will speak to Mme. Cantinet, and send her to you."
"Do not trouble yourself," said the doctor; "I am going home, and she lives in the next house."
The dying seem to struggle with Death as with an invisible assassin; in the agony at the last, as the final thrust is made, the act of dying seems to be a conflict, a hand-to-hand fight for life. Pons had reached the supreme moment. At the sound of his groans and cries, the three standing in the doorway hurried to the bedside. Then came the last blow, smiting asunder the bonds between soul and body, striking down to life's sources; and suddenly Pons regained for a few brief moments the perfect calm that follows the struggle. He came to himself, and with the serenity of death in his face he looked round almost smilingly at them.
"Ah, doctor, I have had a hard time of it; but you were right, I am doing better. Thank you, my good Abbe; I was wondering what had become of Schmucke—"
"Schmucke has had nothing to eat since yesterday evening, and now it is four o'clock! You have no one with you now and it would be wise to send for Mme. Cibot."