At the moment of putting the corpse into the coffin, the male nurse took off the hospital sheet, and asked one of the deceased's friends who was there for money for a shroud.

The poor devil, who had not a sou, went to Jacques' father, who got into a fearful rage, and asked when they would finish bothering him.
The sister of charity, who was present at this horrible discussion, cast a glance at the corpse, and uttered these simple and feeling words: "Oh! sir, you cannot have him buried like that, poor fellow, it is so cold.

Give him at least a shirt, that he may not arrive quite naked before his God." The father gave five francs to the friend to get a shirt, but recommended him to go to a wardrobe shop in the Rue Grace-aux-Belles, where they sold second-hand linen.
"It will be cheaper there," said he.
This cruelty on the part of Jacques' father was explained to me later on.

He was furious because his son had chosen an artistic career, and his anger remained unappeased even in the presence of a coffin.
But I am not very far from Mademoiselle Francine and her muff.

I will return to them.