Chapter III — The Fellowship of Grief
§1
In the antechamber of Catherine Théot’s abode of mysteries some two hours later, half a dozen persons were sitting. The room was long, narrow and bare, its walls dank and colourless, and save for the rough wooden benches on which these persons sat, was void of any furniture. The benches were ranged against the walls; the one window at the end was shuttered so as to exclude all daylight, and from the ceiling there hung a broken-down wrought-iron chandelier, wherein a couple of lighted tallow candles were set, the smoke from which rose in irregular spirals upwards to the low and blackened ceiling.
These persons who sat or sprawled upon the benches did not speak to one another. They appeared to be waiting. One or two of them were seemingly asleep; others, from time to time, would rouse themselves from their apathy, look with dim, inquiring eyes in the direction of a heavy portière which hung in front of a door near the far end of the room, and would strain their ears to listen. This occurred every time that a cry, or a moan, or a sob came from behind the portière. When this subsided again all those in the bare waiting-room resumed their patient, lethargic attitude, and a silence—weird and absolute—reigned once more over them all. Now and then somebody would sigh, and at one time one of the sleepers snored.
Far away a church clock struck six.