Short Stories, vol 4 | Page 6

"What would you do now, Phemie?"
She no longer knew how to solve the problem. They went to the mayor.
He promised that he would close his eyes and authorize the funeral for
the following day. They also went to the health officer, who likewise
promised, in order to oblige Maitre Chicot, to antedate the death
certificate. The man and the woman returned, feeling more at ease.
They went to bed and to sleep, just as they did the preceding day, their
sonorous breathing blending with the feeble breathing of the old man.
When they awoke, he was not yet dead.
Then they began to be frightened. They stood by their father, watching
him with distrust, as though he had wished to play them a mean trick,
to deceive them, to annoy them on purpose, and they were vexed at him
for the time which he was making them lose.
The son-in-law asked:
"What am I goin' to do?"
She did not know. She answered:
"It certainly is annoying!"
The guests who were expected could not be notified. They decided to
wait and explain the case to them.
Toward a quarter to seven the first ones arrived. The women in black,
their heads covered with large veils, looking very sad. Then men, ill at
ease in their homespun coats, were coming forward more slowly, in
couples, talking business.
Maitre Chicot and his wife, bewildered, received them sorrowfully, and
suddenly both of them together began to cry as they approached the
first group. They explained the matter, related their difficulty, offered
chairs, bustled about, tried to make excuses, attempting to prove that
everybody would have done as they did, talking continually and giving
nobody a chance to answer.

They were going from one person to another:
"I never would have thought it; it's incredible how he can last this
long!"
The guests, taken aback, a little disappointed, as though they had
missed an expected entertainment, did not know what to do, some
remaining seated. others standing. Several wished to leave. Maitre
Chicot held them back:
"You must take something, anyhow! We made some dumplings; might
as well make use of 'em."
The faces brightened at this idea. The yard was filling little by little; the
early arrivals were telling the news to those who had arrived later.
Everybody was whispering. The idea of the dumplings seemed to cheer
everyone up.
The women went in to take a look at the dying man. They crossed
themselves beside the bed, muttered a prayer and went out again. The
men, less anxious for this spectacle, cast a look through the window,
which had been opened.
Madame Chicot explained her distress:
"That's how he's been for two days, neither better nor worse. Doesn't he
sound like a pump that has gone dry?"
When everybody had had a look at the dying man, they thought of the
refreshments; but as there were too many people for the kitchen to hold,
the table was moved out in front of the door. The four dozen golden
dumplings, tempting and appetizing, arranged in two big dishes,
attracted the eyes of all. Each one reached out to take his, fearing that
there would not be enough. But four remained over.
Maitre Chicot, his mouth full, said:
"Father would feel sad if he were to see this. He loved them so much
when he was alive."
A big, jovial peasant declared:
"He won't eat any more now. Each one in his turn."
This remark, instead of making the guests sad, seemed to cheer them up.
It was their turn now to eat dumplings.
Madame Chicot, distressed at the expense, kept running down to the
cellar continually for cider. The pitchers were emptied in quick
succession. The company was laughing and talking loud now. They
were beginning to shout as they do at feasts.

Suddenly an old peasant woman who had stayed beside the dying man,
held there by a morbid fear of what would soon happen to herself,
appeared at the window and cried in a shrill voice:
"He's dead! he's dead!"
Everybody was silent. The women arose quickly to go and see. He was
indeed dead. The rattle had ceased. The men looked at each other,
looking down, ill at ease. They hadn't finished eating the dumplings.
Certainly the rascal had not chosen a propitious moment. The Chicots
were no longer weeping. It was over; they were relieved.
They kept repeating:
"I knew it couldn't 'last. If he could only have done it last night, it
would have saved us all this trouble."
Well, anyhow, it was over. They would bury him on Monday, that was
all, and they would eat some more dumplings for the occasion.
The guests went away, talking the matter over, pleased at having had
the chance to