Chapter 6
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."
