"You have a night before you." "Ah, what happiness!" exclaimed the poor girl.

"A winter's night--it will be a long one." Jacques came back.

He brought a muff with him.
"It is very pretty," said Francine.

"I will wear it when I go out." So passed the night with Jacques.
The next day--All Saints'-- about the middle of the day, the death agony seized on her, and her whole body began to quiver.
"My hands are cold," she murmured.

"Give me my muff." And she buried her poor hands in the fur.
"It is the end," said the doctor to Jacques.