whiter every moment.

Intent upon her breathing, we throng about her. We offer her our
hands--so near and so far--and do not know what to do.

I am watching Marie. She has sunk onto the little stool, and her
young, full-blooming body overflows it. Holding her handkerchief in
her teeth, she has come to arrange the pillow, and leaning over the
bed, she puts one knee on a chair. The movement reveals her leg for a
moment, curved like a beautiful Greek vase, while the skin seems to
shine through the black transparency of the stocking, like clouded
gold. Ah! I lean forward towards her with a stifled, incipient appeal
above this bed, which is changing into a tomb. The border of the
tragic dress has fallen again, but I cannot remove my eyes from that
profound obscurity. I look at Marie, and look at her again; and though
I knew her, it seems to me that I wholly discover her.

"I can't hear anything now," says a woman.

"Yes I can----"

"No, no!" the other repeats.

Then I see Crillon's huge back bending over. My aunt's mouth opens
gently and remains open. The eyelids fall back almost completely upon
the stiffened gleam of the eyes, which squint in the gray and bony
mask. I see Crillon's big hand hover over the little mummified face,
lowering the eyelids and keeping them closed.

Marie utters a cry when this movement tells her that our aunt has just