She opened the window wide. The air was soft and balmy. Forestier
inhaled it in feverish gasps. He grasped the arms of his chair and said
in a low voice: "Shut the window. I would rather die in a cellar."

His wife slowly closed the window, then leaned her brow against the
pane and looked out. Duroy, ill at ease, wished to converse with the
invalid to reassure him, but he could think of no words of comfort. He
stammered: "Have you not been better since you are here?"

His friend shrugged his shoulders impatiently: "You will see very
soon." And he bowed his head again.

Duroy continued: "At home it is still wintry. It snows, hails, rains,
and is so dark that they have to light the lamps at three o'clock in
the afternoon."

Forestier asked: "Is there anything new at the office?"

"Nothing. They have taken little Lacrin of the 'Voltaire' to fill your
place, but he is incapable. It is time you came back."

The invalid muttered: "I? I will soon be writing under six feet of
sod." A long silence ensued.

Mme. Forestier did not stir; she stood with her back to the room, her
face toward the window. At length Forestier broke the silence in a
gasping voice, heartrending to listen to: "How many more sunsets shall
I see--eight--ten--fifteen--twenty--or perhaps thirty--no more. You
have more time, you two--as for me--all is at an end. And everything
will go on when I am gone as if I were here." He paused a few moments,
then continued: "Everything that I see reminds me that I shall not see
them long. It is horrible. I shall no longer see the smallest
objects--the glasses--the dishes--the beds on which we rest--the
carriages. It is fine to drive in the evening. How I loved all that."

Again Norbert de Varenne's words occurred to Duroy. The room grew dark.
Forestier asked irritably:

"Are we to have no lamp to-night? That is what is called caring for an
invalid!"

The form outlined against the window disappeared and an electric bell
was heard to ring. A servant soon entered and placed a lamp upon the
mantel-piece. Mme. Forestier asked her husband: "Do you wish to retire,
or will you go downstairs to dinner?"

"I will go down to dinner."

The meal seemed to Duroy interminable, for there was no conversation,
only the ticking of a clock broke the silence. When they had finished,
Duroy, pleading fatigue, retired to his room and tried in vain to
invent some pretext for returning home as quickly as possible. He
consoled himse