Free The Lady of the Camellias by Alexandre Dumas (fils)

them behind him one by one.
    I watched Armand, fearing at every minute that the intense emotions he was so visibly undergoing might break him; but he kept watching, his eyes fixed and open as if in rapture, and only a gentle tremor in his cheeks and lips proved he was the victim of a violent nervous shock.
    As for me, I can say only one thing, which is that I was sorry I had come.
    When the bier was completely uncovered, the commissioner said to the gravediggers, “Open it.”
    The men obeyed as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
    The coffin was made of oak, and they began to unscrew the upper casing that covered it. The dampness of the earth had rusted the screws, and it was not without effort that the coffin was opened. An odor of infection seeped out, in spite of the aromatic plants that had been strewn within.
    â€œO my God! My God!” murmured Armand, and again he turned pale.
    Even the gravediggers drew back.
    A large white shroud covered the corpse, outlining some of its sinuous curves. This shroud was almost completely eaten away at one end; a foot of the dead woman stuck through.
    I was very nearly sick, and at the hour in which I write these lines, the memory of this scene appears to me again in its daunting reality.
    â€œLet’s hurry,” the commissioner said.
    One of the two men extended a hand and began undoing the shroud, and seizing one end he brusquely uncovered the face of Marguerite.
    It was terrible to see; it is horrible to describe.
    Her eyes were nothing more than two holes, her lips had disappeared, and her white teeth were crowded one against the other. Her long, dry black hair was stuck to her temples, veiling somewhat the green cavities of her cheeks, and yet I could recognize in this visage the white, pink, and joyful face I had so often seen.
    Armand, unable to avert his gaze from this face, had brought his handkerchief to his mouth and was biting it.
    As for me it seemed as if a circlet of iron were bound around my head, a veil covered my eyes, buzzing filled my ears, and all I could do was open a small vial I had brought by chance and inhale deeply the salts it contained.
    In the midst of this daze, I heard the commissioner say to M. Duval, “Do you make the identification?”
    â€œYes,” the young man replied dumbly.
    â€œClose it up and take it away,” said the commissioner.
    The gravediggers threw the shroud back over the face of the dead woman, closed the coffin, and each took it by one end and headed toward the designated place.
    Armand did not move. His eyes were riveted on the empty pit; he was as pale as the corpse we had just seen. You would have said he’d been turned to stone.
    I understood what was likely to happen once his grief had subsided, reduced by distance from the spectacle; as a result I left his side.
    I approached the commissioner.
    â€œIs the presence of the gentleman still necessary?” I asked, indicating Armand.
    â€œNo,” he said, “and I would actually advise you to take him away, because he looks ill.”
    â€œCome,” I said to Armand, taking his arm.
    â€œWhat?” he said, looking at me as if he didn’t recognize me.
    â€œIt’s over,” I said. “You’ve got to go, my friend—you’re pale, you’re cold, you’ll kill yourself with this distress.”
    â€œYou’re right. Let’s get out of here,” he responded mechanically, without taking a step.
    I grabbed him by the arm and led him off.
    He let himself be guided like a child, murmuring only now and again, “Did you see her eyes?”
    And he turned around, as if that vision had summoned her back.
    But his step became irregular; he was no longer able to advance except by jolts. His teeth chattered; his hands were cold; a violent nervous agitation spread across his entire body.
    I spoke to him; he did not answer.
    All he could do was let himself be guided.
    He had hardly sat down when