of a screech-owl. . . . Believe me, friend, I want to die, but
I cannot. I must know . . . I must discover. Ah! Morlof, Morlof,
leave thy hands in mine, or I shall think thou hast not forgiven
me. . . . God! how cold these hands are . . . cold . . . cold . . ."

And at these words he shuddered; his head moved convulsively upon
his shoulders, and his teeth chattered; but soon calming himself,
he murmured:

"I want to know the name, I must know that name! Is there no one
who can tell me that name?"

Thus speaking, he raised the picture to a level with his face, and
with bent head and extended neck, appeared to be trying to decipher
upon the canvas some microscopic writing or obscure hieroglyphics.

"The name is there!" said he. "It is written somewhere about the
heart,--at the bottom of the heart; but I cannot read it, the
writing is so fine, it is a female hand; I do not know how to read
a woman's writing. They have a cipher of which Satan alone has the
key. My sight is failing me. I have flies in my head. There is
always one of them that hides this name from me. Oh! in mercy, in
pity, take away the fly and bring me a pair of pincers. . . . With
good pincers I will seek that name even in the last fibers of this
heart which beats no more."

He added with a terrible air:

The dead do not open their teeth. The one who lives will speak.
You shall see how I will make him speak. You shall see how I will