The water and the candles were brought and the two friends left alone.

"What do you want to do?" asked the doctor, watching Jacques, who after
filling a wooden bowl with water was sprinkling powdered plaster of
Paris into it.

"What do I mean to do?" asked the artist, "cannot you guess? I am going
to model Francine's head, and as my courage would fail me if I were left
alone, you must stay with me."

Jacques then went and drew the curtains of the bed and turned down the
sheet that had been pulled up over the dead girl's face. His hand began
to tremble and a stifled sob broke from his lips.

"Bring the candles," he cried to his friend, "and come and hold the
bowl for me."

One of the candles was placed at the head of the bed so as to shed its
light on Francine's face, the other candle was placed at the foot. With
a brush dipped in olive oil the artist coated the eye-brows, the
eye-lashes and the hair, which he arranged as Francine usually wore it.

"By doing this she will not suffer when we remove the mold," murmured
Jacques to himself.

These precautions taken and after arranging the dead girl's head in a
favorable position, Jacques began to lay on the plaster in successive
coats until the mold had attained the necessary thickness. In a quarter
of an hour the operation was over and had been thoroughly successful.

By some strange peculiarity a change had taken place in Francine's face.
The blood, which had not had time to become wholly congealed, warmed no
doubt by the warmth of the plaster, had flowed to the upper part of the
corpse and a rosy tinge gradually showed itself on the dead whiteness of
the cheeks and forehead. The eyelids, which had lifted when the mold was
removed, revealed the tranquil blue eyes in which a vague intelligence
seemed to lurk; from out the lips, parted by the beginning of a smile,
there seemed to issue that last word, forgotten during the last
farewell, that is only heard by the heart.

Who can affirm that intelligence absolutely ends where insensibility
begins? Who can say that the passions fade away and die exactly at the
last beat of the heart which they have agitated? Cannot the soul
sometimes remain a voluntary captive within the corpse already dressed
for the coffin, and note for a moment from the recesses of its fleshly
prison house, regrets and tears? Those who depart have so many reasons
to mistrust those who remain behind.

At the moment when Jacques sought to preserv