"Kiss her for the last time." Jacques pressed his lips to those of his love.

At the last moment they wanted to take away her muff, but she clutched it with her hands.
"No, no," she said, "leave it me; it is winter, it is cold.

Oh my poor Jacques! My poor Jacques! What will become of you?
Oh heavens!" And the next day Jacques was alone.
_First Reader_: I told you that this was not a very lively story.
What would you have, reader?
We cannot always laugh.
It was the morning of All Saints.

Francine was dead.
Two men were watching at the bedside.

One of them standing up was the doctor.