something, but in vain; he remained motionless, exhausted, not even
turning round, indifferent to all you said, to everything, even
yourself.

And what is all that is needed to strike down this little creature, to
reduce him to this pitch? Only a few hours. What, is that all that is
needed to put an end to him? Five minutes. Perhaps.

You know that life hangs on a thread in this frail body, so little
fitted to suffer. You feel that life is only a breath, and say to
yourself: "Suppose this one is his last." A little while back he was
complaining. Already he does so no longer. It seems as though someone
is clasping him, bearing him away, tearing him from your arms. Then you
draw near him, and clasp him to you almost involuntarily, as though to
give him back some of your own life. His bed is damp with fever sweats,
his lips are losing their color. The nostrils of his little nose, grown
sharp and dry, rise and fall. His mouth remains wide open. It is that
little rosy mouth which used to laugh so joyfully, those are the two
lips that used to press themselves to yours, and... all the joys, the
bursts of laughter, the follies, the endless chatter, all the bygone
happiness, flock to your recollection at the sound of that gasping,
breathing, while big hot tears fall slowly from your eyes. Poor wee man.
Your hand seeks his little legs, and you dare not touch his chest, which
you have kissed so often, for fear of encountering that ghastly leanness
which you foresee, but the contact of which would make you break out in
sobs. And then, at a certain moment, while the sunlight was flooding the
room, you heard a deeper moan, resembling a cry. You darted forward; his
face was contracted, and he looked toward you with eyes that no longer
saw. And then all was calm, silent and motionless, while his hollow
cheeks became yellow and transparent as the amber of his necklaces.

The recollection of that moment lasts for a lifetime in the hearts of
those who have loved; and even in old age, when time has softened your
grief, when other joys and other sorrows have filled your days, his
dying bed still appears to you when sitting of an evening beside the
fire. You see amid the sparkling flames the room of the lost child, the
table with the drinks, the bottles, the arsenal of illness, the little
garments, carefully folded, that waited for him so long, his toys
abandoned in a corner. You even see the marks of his little fingers on
the wall paper,