ception room. Almost immediately
the door opened and the concierge came in.

"Sad news, mademoiselle," he said.

And he handed her a letter he had in his hand; it bore the stamp of the
Lariboisiere hospital: Germinie was dead; she died at seven o'clock that
morning.

Mademoiselle took the letter; she saw only the letters that said: "Dead!
dead!" And they repeated the word: "Dead! dead!" to no purpose, for she
could not believe it. As is always the case with a person of whose death
one learns abruptly, Germinie appeared to her instinct with life, and
her body, which was no more, seemed to stand before her with the
awe-inspiring presence of a ghost. Dead! She should never see her more!
So there was no longer a Germinie on earth! Dead! She was dead! And the
person she should hear henceforth moving about in the kitchen would not
be she; somebody else would open the door for her, somebody else would
potter about her room in the morning! "Germinie!" she cried at last, in
the tone with which she was accustomed to call her; then, collecting her
thoughts: "Machine! creature! What's your name?" she cried, savagely, to
the bewildered housekeeper. "My dress--I must go there."

She was so taken by surprise by this sudden fatal termination of the
disease, that she could not accustom her mind to the thought. She could
hardly realize that sudden, secret, vague death, of which her only
knowledge was derived from a scrap of paper. Was Germinie really dead?
Mademoiselle asked herself the question with the doubt of persons who
have lost a dear one far away, and, not having seen her die, do not
admit that she is dead. Was she not still alive the last time she saw
her? How could it have happened? How could she so suddenly have become a
thing good for nothing except to be put under ground? Mademoiselle dared
not think about it, and yet she kept on thinking. The mystery of the
death-agony, of which she knew nothing, attracted and terrified her. The
anxious interest of her affection turned to her maid's last hours, and
she tried gropingly to take away the veil and repel the feeling of
horror. Then she was seized with an irresistible longing to know
everything, to witness, with the help of what might be told her, what
she had not seen. She felt that she must know if Germinie had spoken
before she died,--if she had expressed any desire, spoken of any last
wishes, uttered one of those sentences which are the final outcry of
life.

When she r