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Colombel immediately embraced each other, without saying a word. They locked very much alike, having always worn their hair in Madonna bands, and loud red French cashmere shawls. Cimme turned to his brother-in-law, a pale, sal, low-complexioned, thin man, wasted by stomach complaints, who limped badly, and said in a serious tone of voice: "Gad! It was high time."
Who will bring up my children? Who will take care of them? Who will love them? No, I don't want to! I don't " She fell back. All was over. The dog, wild with excitement, jumped about the room, barking. Colombel ran to the window, calling his brother-in-law: "Hurry up, hurry up! I think that she has just gone." Then Cimme, resigned, arose and entered the room, mumbling
They tasted the wine and found it excellent, not because it was of a remarkable vintage, but because it had been in the cellar fifteen years. Cimme declared: "That is regular invalid's wine." Colombel, filled with an ardent desire to gain possession of this Bordeaux, once more questioned the girl: "How much of it is left?" "Oh! Almost all, monsieur; mamz'elle never touched it.
Then she began to speak in a thin, high voice, which no one had ever heard, a voice which seemed to come from the distance, perhaps from the depths of this heart which had always been closed. Cimme, finding this scene painful, walked away on tiptoe. Colombel, whose crippled leg was growing tired, sat down. The two women remained standing.
But no one dared to enter the dying woman's room on the ground floor. Even Cimme made way for the others. Colombel was the first to make up his mind, and, swaying from side to side like the mast of a ship, the iron ferule of his cane clattering on the paved hall, he entered. The two women were the next to venture, and M. Cimmes closed the procession.
But suddenly he entered the house and said to the girl: "I say, my girl, are we not going to have luncheon? What do you ladies wish to eat?" They finally agreed on an omelet, a piece of steak with new potatoes, cheese and coffee. As Mme. Colombel was fumbling in her pocket for her purse, Cimme stopped her, and, turning to the maid: "Have you got any money?" She answered: "Yes, monsieur."
As soon as he had tasted the wine, Colombel, for whom only the best of Bordeaux had been prescribed, called the servant back: "I say, my girl, is this the best stuff that you have in the cellar?" "No, monsieur; there is some better wine, which was only brought out when you came." "Well, bring us three bottles of it."
Cimme began to laugh, looked at his wife and hummed in a teasing way: "Tra-la-la, tra-la-la" as though to cast a good deal of doubt on his own, Cimme's, faithfulness: Colombel was suffering from cramps and was rapping the floor with his cane. The other cat, its tail pointing upright to the sky, now came in. They sat down to luncheon at one o'clock.
The convention, apprised of the danger, sat permanently, stationed round its place of sitting the troops of the camp of Sablons, and concentrated its powers in a committee of five members, who were entrusted with all measures of public safety. These members were Colombel, Barras, Daunou, Letourneur, and Merlin de Douai.
The two women and Colombel rushed in to see what was the matter. Cimme, waking up, did not budge, because, he did not wish to witness such a scene. She was sitting up, with haggard eyes.
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