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.