Short Stories, vol 4 | Page 5

bread, cut off a slice, and carefully gathered the
crumbs in the palm of his hand and threw them into his mouth, so as
not to lose anything. Then, with the end of his knife, he scraped out a
little salt butter from the bottom of an earthen jar, spread it on his bread
and began to eat slowly, as he did everything.
He recrossed the farmyard, quieted the dog, which had started barking
again, went out on the road bordering on his ditch, and disappeared in
the direction of Tourville.
As soon as she was alone, the woman began to work. She uncovered
the meal-bin and made the dough for the dumplings. She kneaded it a
long time, turning it over and over again, punching, pressing, crushing
it. Finally she made a big, round, yellow-white ball, which she placed
on the corner of the table.
Then she went to get her apples, and, in order not to injure the tree with
a pole, she climbed up into it by a ladder. She chose the fruit with care,
only taking the ripe ones, and gathering them in her apron.
A voice called from the road:
"Hey, Madame Chicot!"
She turned round. It was a neighbor, Osime Favet, the mayor, on his
way to fertilize his fields, seated on the manure-wagon, with his feet
hanging over the side. She turned round and answered:
"What can I do for you, Maitre Osime?"
"And how is the father?"
She cried:
"He is as good as dead. The funeral is Saturday at seven, because
there's lots of work to be done."
The neighbor answered:
"So! Good luck to you! Take care of yourself."
To his kind remarks she answered:"
"Thanks; the same to you."
And she continued picking apples.
When she went back to the house, she went over to look at her father,
expecting to find him dead. But as soon as she reached the door she
heard his monotonous, noisy rattle, and, thinking it a waste of time to

go over to him, she began to prepare her dumplings. She wrapped up
the fruit, one by one, in a thin layer of paste, then she lined them up on
the edge of the table. When she had made forty-eight dumplings,
arranged in dozens, one in front of the other, she began to think of
preparing supper, and she hung her kettle over the fire to cook potatoes,
for she judged it useless to heat the oven that day, as she had all the
next day in which to finish the preparations.
Her husband returned at about five. As soon as he had crossed the
threshold he asked:
"Is it over?"
She answered:
"Not yet; he's still gurglin'."
They went to look at him. The old man was in exactly the same
condition. His hoarse rattle, as regular as the ticking of a clock, was
neither quicker nor slower. It returned every second, the tone varying a
little, according as the air entered or left his chest.
His son-in-law looked at him and then said:
"He'll pass away without our noticin' it, just like a candle."
They returned to the kitchen and started to eat without saying a word.
When they had swallowed their soup, they ate another piece of bread
and butter. Then, as soon as the dishes were washed, they returned to
the dying man.
The woman, carrying a little lamp with a smoky wick, held it in front of
her father's face. If he had not been breathing, one would certainly have
thought him dead.
The couple's bed was hidden in a little recess at the other end of the
room. Silently they retired, put out the light, closed their eyes, and soon
two unequal snores, one deep and the other shriller, accompanied the
uninterrupted rattle of the dying man.
The rats ran about in the garret.
The husband awoke at the first streaks of dawn. His father-in-law was
still alive. He shook his wife, worried by the tenacity of the old man.
"Say, Phemie, he don't want to quit. What would you do?"
He knew that she gave good advice.
She answered:
"You needn't be afraid; he can't live through the day. And the mayor
won't stop our burying him to-morrow, because he allowed it for Maitre

Renard's father, who died just during the planting season."
He was convinced by this argument, and left for the fields.
His wife baked the dumplings and then attended to her housework.
At noon the old man was not dead. The people hired for the day's work
came by groups to look at him. Each one had his say. Then they left
again for the fields.
At six o'clock, when the work was over, the father was still breathing.
At last his son-in-law was frightened.