he, "you must not disarrange it." Then
turning to Buvat, "Ah! these sick people!" added she, shrugging her
shoulders, "they are always fancying that there is something making them
uncomfortable: it is death, only they do not know it."

Clarice sighed deeply, but remained motionless. The nurse approached
her, and passed over her lips the feather of a quill dipped in a cordial
of her own invention, which she had just been to fetch at the
chemist's. Buvat could not support this spectacle; he recommended the
mother and child to the care of the nurse, and left.

The next day Clarice was still worse, for though her eyes were open, she
did not seem to recognize any one but her daughter, who was lying near
her on the bed, and whose little hand she held. On her part the child,
as if she felt that this was the last maternal embrace, remained quiet
and silent. On seeing her kind friend she only said, "Mamma sleeps."

It appeared to Buvat that Clarice moved as if she heard and recognized
her child's voice, but it might have been only a nervous trembling. He
asked the nurse if the sick woman had wanted anything. She shook her
head, saying, "What would be the use? It would be money thrown away.
These apothecaries make quite enough already." Buvat would have liked to
stay with Clarice, for he saw that she had not long to live, but he
never would have thought of absenting himself for a day from business
unless he were dying himself. He arrived there, then, as usual, but so
sad and melancholy that the king did not gain much by his presence. They
remarked with astonishment that that day Buvat did not wait till four
o'clock had struck to take off the false blue sleeves which he wore to
protect his coat; but that at the first stroke of the clock he got up,
took his hat, and went out. The supernumerary, who had already asked for
his place, watched him as he went, then, when he had closed the door,
"Well!" said he, loud enough to be heard by the chief, "there is one who
takes it easy."

Buvat's presentiments were confirmed. On arriving at the house he asked
the porter's wife how Clarice was.

"Ah, God be thanked!" replied she; "the poor woman is happy; she suffers
no more."

"She is dead!" cried Buvat, with that shudder always produced by this
terrible word.

"About three-quarters of an hour ago," replied she; and she went on
darning her stocking, and singing a merry song which she had
interrupted to reply to Buvat.

Buvat ascended