La femme du mort, Tome II (1897)

In a dimly lit country house, the weary servant Simon sits before a crackling fire, his eyes swollen from tears as the clock’s tick‑tock drifts through the heavy silence. The night’s gloom is broken only by the low growl of a dog, a cat’s soft purr, and the occasional mutter of his master, Pierre, who watches his loyal aide with a mix of concern and stern authority. As Simon struggles to articulate the weight of his sorrow, a young girl’s plaintive request to be led “where mother sleeps” pulls the scene into a deeper, unsettling mystery.

The narrative unfolds through vivid, almost theatrical dialogue, drawing listeners into the tangled emotions of those bound by duty, grief, and hidden motives. With each hesitant confession, the atmosphere tightens, hinting at secrets that linger in the shadows of the house and the lives of its inhabitants. This opening promises an intimate, psychological portrait of loss and the fragile ties that hold a family together.