Then, as Marianne in surprise began to put some questions, the
girl explained matters: "Madame took a box of drawing materials with her.
I fancy that she is painting a portrait of the poor young man who is
dead."
As Mathieu and Marianne crossed the courtyard of the works, they felt
oppressed by the grave-like silence which reigned in that great city of
labor, usually so full of noise and bustle. Death had suddenly passed by,
and all the ardent life had at once ceased, the machinery had become cold
and mute, the workshops silent and deserted. There was not a sound, not a
soul, not a puff of that vapor which was like the very breath of the
place. Its master dead, it had died also. And the distress of the
Froments increased when they passed from the works into the house, amid
absolute solitude; the connecting gallery was wrapt in slumber, the
staircase quivered amid the heavy silence, all the doors were open, as in
some uninhabited house, long since deserted. They found no servant in the
antechamber, and even the dim drawing-room, where the blinds of
embroidered muslin were lowered, while the armchairs were arranged in a
circle, as on reception days, when numerous visitors were expected, at
first seemed to them to be empty.
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