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.