et free, but the little fingers,
feeling the mass of soft, warm flesh about them, embedded themselves in
it with delicious ecstasy. Some unknown force made them hold fast to
their prey. Guinardon's throat began to rattle, saliva was oozing from
one corner of his mouth. His enormous frame quivered now and again
beneath the grasp; but the tremors grew more and more intermittent and
spasmodic. At last they ceased. The murderous hands did not let go their
hold. Sariette had to make a violent effort to loose them. His temples
were buzzing. Nevertheless he could hear the rain falling outside,
muffled steps going past on the pavement, newspaper men shouting in the
distance. He could see umbrellas passing along in the dim light. He drew
the book from the dead man's pocket and fled.

The fair Octavie did not go back to the shop that night. She went to
sleep in a little entresol underneath the bric-a-brac stores which
Monsieur de Blancmesnil had recently bought for her in this same Rue de
Courcelles. The workman whose task it was to shut up the shop found the
antiquary's body still warm. He called Madame Lenain, the concierge,
who laid Guinardon on the couch, lit a couple of candles, put a sprig of
box in a saucer of holy water, and closed the dead man's eyes. The
doctor who was called in to certify the death ascribed it to apoplexy.

Zephyrine, informed of what had happened by Madame Lenain, hastened to
the house, and sat up all night with the body. The dead man looked as if
he were sleeping. In the flickering light of the candles El Greco's
Saint mounted upwards like a wreath of smoke, the gold of the Primitives
gleamed in the shadows. Near the deathbed a little woman by Baudouin was
plainly discernible giving herself a douche. All through the night
Zephyrine's lamentations could be heard fifty yards away.

"He's dead, he's dead!" she kept saying. "My friend, my divinity, my
all, my love---- But no! he is not dead, he moves. It is I, Michel; I,
your Zephyrine. Awake, hear me! Answer me; I love you; if ever I caused
you pain, forgive me. Dead! dead! O my God! See how beautiful he is. He
was so good, so clever, so kind. My God! My God! My God! If I had been
there he would not now be lying dead. Michel! Michel!"

When morning came she was silent. They thought she had fallen asleep.
She was dead too.

CHAPTER XXXII

WHICH DESCRIBES HOW NECTAIRE'S FLUTE WAS HEARD IN THE TAVERN
OF CLODOMIR

Madame de la Verd