Chapter VI

I found Armand in bed. On seeing me he held out a burning hand. “You

are feverish,” I said to him. “It is nothing, the fatigue of a rapid

journey; that is all.” “You have been to see Marguerite’s sister?”

“Yes; who told you?” “I knew it. Did you get what you wanted?”

“Yes; but who told you of my journey, and of my reason for taking it?”

“The gardener of the cemetery.”

“You have seen the tomb?”

I scarcely dared reply, for the tone in which the words were spoken

proved to me that the speaker was still possessed by the emotion which

I had witnessed before, and that every time his thoughts or speech

travelled back to that mournful subject emotion would still, for a long

time to come, prove stronger than his will. I contented myself with a

nod of the head.

“He has looked after it well?” continued Armand. Two big tears rolled

down the cheeks of the sick man, and he turned away his head to hide

them from me. I pretended not to see them, and tried to change the

conversation. “You have been away three weeks,” I said.

Armand passed his hand across his eyes and replied, “Exactly three

weeks.”

“You had a long journey.”

“Oh, I was not travelling all the time. I was ill for a fortnight or I

should have returned long ago; but I had scarcely got there when I took

this fever, and I was obliged to keep my room.”

“And you started to come back before you were really well?”

“If I had remained in the place for another week, I should have died

there.”

“Well, now you are back again, you must take care of yourself; your

friends will come and look after you; myself, first of all, if you will

allow me.”

“I shall get up in a couple of hours.”

“It would be very unwise.”

“I must.”

“What have you to do in such a great hurry?”

“I must go to the inspector of police.”

“Why do you not get one of your friends to see after the matter? It is

likely to make you worse than you are now.”

“It is my only chance of getting better. I must see her. Ever since I

heard of her death, especially since I saw her grave, I have not been

able to sleep. I can not realize that this woman, so young and so

beautiful when I left her, is really dead. I must convince myself of

it. I must see what God has done with a being that I have loved so

much, and perhaps the horror of the sight will cure me of my despair.

Will you accompany me, if it won’t be troubling you too much?”

“What did her sister say about it?”

“Nothing. She seemed greatly surprised that a stranger wanted to buy a

plot of ground and give Marguerite a new grave, and she immediately

signed the authorization that I asked her for.”

“Believe me, it would be better to wait until you are quite well.”

“Have no fear; I shall be quite composed. Besides, I should simply go

out of my mind if I were not to carry out a resolution which I have set

myself to carry out. I swear to you that I shall never be myself again

until I have seen Marguerite. It is perhaps the thirst of the fever, a

sleepless night’s dream, a moment’s delirium; but though I were to

become a Trappist, like M. de Rance’, after having seen, I will see.”

“I understand,” I said to Armand, “and I am at your service. Have you

seen Julie Duprat?”

“Yes, I saw her the day I returned, for the first time.”

“Did she give you the papers that Marguerite had left for you?”

Armand drew a roll of papers from under his pillow, and immediately put

them back.

“I know all that is in these papers by heart,” he said. “For three

weeks I have read them ten times over every day. You shall read them,

too, but later on, when I am calmer, and can make you understand all

the love and tenderness hidden away in this confession. For the moment

I want you to do me a service.”

“What is it?”

“Your cab is below?”

“Yes.

“Well, will you take my passport and ask if there are any letters for

me at the poste restante? My father and sister must have written to me

at Paris, and I went away in such haste that I did not go and see

before leaving. When you come back we will go together to the inspector

of police, and arrange for to-morrow’s ceremony.”

Armand handed me his passport, and I went to Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau.

There were two letters addressed to Duval. I took them and returned.

When I re-entered the room Armand was dressed and ready to go out.

“Thanks,” he said, taking the letters. “Yes,” he added, after glancing

at the addresses, “they are from my father and sister. They must have

been quite at a loss to understand my silence.”

He opened the letters, guessed at rather than read them, for each was

of four pages; and a moment after folded them up. “Come,” he said, “I

will answer tomorrow.”

We went to the police station, and Armand handed in the permission

signed by Marguerite’s sister. He received in return a letter to the

keeper of the cemetery, and it was settled that the disinterment was to

take place next day, at ten o’clock, that I should call for him an hour

before, and that we should go to the cemetery together.

I confess that I was curious to be present, and I did not sleep all

night. Judging from the thoughts which filled my brain, it must have

been a long night for Armand. When I entered his room at nine on the

following morning he was frightfully pale, but seemed calm. He smiled

and held out his hand. His candles were burned out; and before leaving

he took a very heavy letter addressed to his father, and no doubt

containing an account of that night’s impressions.

Half an hour later we were at Montmartre. The police inspector was

there already. We walked slowly in the direction of Marguerite’s grave.

The inspector went in front; Armand and I followed a few steps behind.

From time to time I felt my companion’s arm tremble convulsively, as if

he shivered from head to feet. I looked at him. He understood the look,

and smiled at me; we had not exchanged a word since leaving the house.

Just before we reached the grave, Armand stopped to wipe his face,

which was covered with great drops of sweat. I took advantage of the

pause to draw in a long breath, for I, too, felt as if I had a weight

on my chest.

What is the origin of that mournful pleasure which we find in sights of

this kind? When we reached the grave the gardener had removed all the

flower-pots, the iron railing had been taken away, and two men were

turning up the soil.

Armand leaned against a tree and watched. All his life seemed to pass

before his eyes. Suddenly one of the two pickaxes struck against a

stone. At the sound Armand recoiled, as at an electric shock, and

seized my hand with such force as to give me pain.

One of the grave-diggers took a shovel and began emptying out the

earth; then, when only the stones covering the coffin were left, he

threw them out one by one.

I scrutinized Armand, for every moment I was afraid lest the emotions

which he was visibly repressing should prove too much for him; but he

still watched, his eyes fixed and wide open, like the eyes of a madman,

and a slight trembling of the cheeks and lips were the only signs of

the violent nervous crisis under which he was suffering.

As for me, all I can say is that I regretted having come.

When the coffin was uncovered the inspector said to the grave-digger:

“Open it.” They obeyed, as if it were the most natural thing in the

world.

The coffin was of oak, and they began to unscrew the lid. The humidity

of the earth had rusted the screws, and it was not without some

difficulty that the coffin was opened. A painful odour arose in spite

of the aromatic plants with which it was covered.

“O my God, my God!” murmured Armand, and turned paler than before.

Even the grave-digger drew back.

A great white shroud covered the corpse, closely outlining some of its

contours. This shroud was almost completely eaten away at one end, and

left one of the feet visible.

I was nearly fainting, and at the moment of writing these lines I see

the whole scene over again in all its imposing reality.

“Quick,” said the inspector. Thereupon one of the men put out his hand,

began to unsew the shroud, and taking hold of it by one end suddenly

laid bare the face of Marguerite.

It was terrible to see, it is horrible to relate. The eyes were nothing

but two holes, the lips had disappeared, vanished, and the white teeth

were tightly set. The black hair, long and dry, was pressed tightly

about the forehead, and half veiled the green hollows of the cheeks;

and yet I recognised in this face the joyous white and rose face that I

had seen so often.

Armand, unable to turn away his eyes, had put the handkerchief to his

mouth and bit it.

For my part, it was as if a circle of iron tightened about my head, a

veil covered my eyes, a rumbling filled my ears, and all I could do was

to unstop a smelling bottle which I happened to have with me, and to

draw in long breaths of it.

Through this bewilderment I heard the inspector say to Duval, “Do you

identify?”

“Yes,” replied the young man in a dull voice.

“Then fasten it up and take it away,” said the inspector.

The grave-diggers put back the shroud over the face of the corpse,

fastened up the coffin, took hold of each end of it, and began to carry

it toward the place where they had been told to take it.

Armand did not move. His eyes were fixed upon the empty grave; he was

as white as the corpse which we had just seen. He looked as if he had

been turned to stone.

I saw what was coming as soon as the pain caused by the spectacle

should have abated and thus ceased to sustain him. I went up to the

inspector. “Is this gentleman’s presence still necessary?” I said,

pointing to Armand.

“No,” he replied, “and I should advise you to take him away. He looks

ill.”

“Come,” I said to Armand, taking him by the arm.

“What?” he said, looking at me as if he did not recognise me.

“It is all over,” I added. “You must come, my friend; you are quite

white; you are cold. These emotions will be too much for you.”

“You are right. Let us go,” he answered mechanically, but without

moving a step.

I took him by the arm and led him along. He let himself be guided like

a child, only from time to time murmuring, “Did you see her eyes?” and

he turned as if the vision had recalled her.

Nevertheless, his steps became more irregular; he seemed to walk by a

series of jerks; his teeth chattered; his hands were cold; a violent

agitation ran through his body. I spoke to him; he did not answer. He

was just able to let himself be led along. A cab was waiting at the

gate. It was only just in time. Scarcely had he seated himself, when

the shivering became more violent, and he had an actual attack of

nerves, in the midst of which his fear of frightening me made him press

my hand and whisper: “It is nothing, nothing. I want to weep.”

His chest laboured, his eyes were injected with blood, but no tears

came. I made him smell the salts which I had with me, and when we

reached his house only the shivering remained.

With the help of his servant I put him to bed, lit a big fire in his

room, and hurried off to my doctor, to whom I told all that had

happened. He hastened with me.

Armand was flushed and delirious; he stammered out disconnected words,

in which only the name of Marguerite could be distinctly heard.

“Well?” I said to the doctor when he had examined the patient.

“Well, he has neither more nor less than brain fever, and very lucky it

is for him, for I firmly believe (God forgive me!) that he would have

gone out of his mind. Fortunately, the physical malady will kill the

mental one, and in a month’s time he will be free from the one and

perhaps from the other.”