rstood 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 disappear